Drowning
by Noxbait
Summary: S12. After their escape from the secret government prison, Dean isn't doing well. And Sam? Sam might be doing a little too well. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

_**Good Morning! Here's the first chapter of a short little story filling in some of the missing pieces following their escape from the super-secret government prison. I know I'm not alone in thinking we needed...a LOT more! Hope you'll enjoy!  
**_

* * *

 _Setting: Season 12, episode 9, "First Blood"_

 _ **Drowning**_

Considering Cas had just killed a reaper, Dean thought they probably had a few things they needed to talk about.

For a moment, it was as if the air had been suctioned right out of his lungs.

His mind was reeling with everything that had just happened. Beyond the reaper, of course, there was also the whole being locked up in a super-secret government facility situation. Plus six weeks of outside world they'd missed. They probably needed to discuss all of that. Getting a hell of a lot further away wouldn't be a bad idea, either.

That was the thought that won out over all the others and spurred Dean to take charge of the situation and get them moving.

He accepted the clothes his mother handed him, and went into the woods a short distance to change. Even though they were miles away, the memories and stench of the place settled heavily over him like a fog. He wanted to rip off the grey jumpsuit and dive into a freezing cold creek to wash the nightmare off his skin. Instead, he shoved the jumpsuit into a garbage bag to be burned when they got back to the Bunker.

Once Sam had changed, too, they rejoined Cas and their mother at the car.

"We should get a motel," Mary said, breaking the uncomfortable, stunned, silence. "You boys need to get some-"

"It's only about seven hours," Sam interrupted her.

Dean didn't need his brother to clarify his statement. The bunker was within reach and he was too keyed up to even think about sleeping right now. A quick glance to his right confirmed that Sam was feeling the same way. Dean looked at their mom.

"We're going home," he said firmly.

"Ok." Mary nodded even though her tone indicated she disagreed.

Cas was silent on the matter.

"I'll drive." Dean held out his hand and his mom tossed him the keys without hesitation.

It was a relief. He _needed_ to drive. Needed to have that sense of control restored. He got behind the wheel as everyone else sorted themselves out. He wasn't surprised when Sam took the passenger seat.

He should have been able to relax. To finally take a deep breath. To allow the relief to fill him as each mile he drove took them further from the nightmare. But he couldn't relax.

Tension was running through every atom in his being and it took a moment for him to tune into the conversation that had picked up around him.

He listened, but kept his mouth shut. He wanted a cheeseburger and he wanted a shower. What he _didn't_ want was to talk. Apparently everyone else _did_ want to talk, though. The peanut gallery in the back seat were asking and answering questions, and Sam was handling most of the conversation.

Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye. Sam looked fine and sounded fine and acted like he was fine, but Dean knew better. Neither of them were fine. Not really. But neither of them had dissolved into a blubbering nervous breakdown (yet) so if Sam was content to pretend all was well, Dean wasn't going to disagree.

For almost an hour, Dean listened to the conversation. Mary and Cas discussed what had been happening over the past six weeks. They asked a few questions about what had happened after he and Sam had been captured, but they didn't get a lot of answers, Dean noted. In fact, now that he was thinking about it, they barely got any answers at all.

Sam skillfully redirected the conversation to other topics on more than one occasion and it didn't take long before everyone in the car got the message.

He didn't want to talk about it.

Conversation petered out quickly and the silence continued for the next two hours. Dean lost himself focusing on the road ahead and trying not to think about the prison.

They stopped for gas, coffee, and some food because it had been hours since they'd eaten. Their mom suggested finding a motel again and Dean opened his mouth, but Sam vetoed the suggestion before he had the chance to. Dean wasn't ready to settle down yet, either. He needed to be on the road, needed the distraction.

They all piled back into the car and Dean floored it. As grateful as he was to Cas and his mother for doing what they had to find them, he wished they weren't in the car right now. He needed time to process what had happened. They weren't pushing, but Dean knew they wanted more answers, more details.

They weren't asking for them anymore, though, so Sam's tactful way of shutting them down seemed to have worked.

 _Speaking of which,_ Dean stole a quick peek at his brother from the corner of his eye. Sam was staring out the windshield, expression unreadable. He didn't look particularly tense, but he was good at bluffing. They both were.

If it hadn't been for their backseat company, they'd be talking about it. _Maybe._ Neither of them wanted to talk, that much was clear. But it had been six weeks. 42 days. 1,008 hours. 60,480 minutes.

A lifetime.

No, Dean didn't want to talk, but he needed _something_. After that much silence, he needed to hear something that wasn't his own breathing. He was trying to decide if he should turn on the radio or attempt to start a conversation that didn't have anything to do with the prison.

The radio won out and for the next five hours they listened without a single word.

About an hour and a half before they would reach the outskirts of Lebanon, he had to pull off for more gas. There was a small diner next door and when his mom insisted they all needed to eat something, he just nodded. He was starving, but, more importantly, he needed caffeine. The sun was bright in the sky but exhaustion was weighing heavily on him now. He could relinquish the keys to any of his companions, of course, but he didn't.

Dean finished pumping the gas and was a little surprised to find everyone still standing around by the front of the car. He wanted to tell them all to head over to the diner while he parked the car, but he didn't. He didn't say anything, in fact. Just got behind the wheel and started the engine. Cas and Mary started walking toward the diner, but the passenger side door opened.

Waiting until the door closed behind his brother, Dean put the car into drive. It was a thirty second trip to the parking lot of the diner and every single second was silent. Mary and Cas were walking through the door of the diner as Dean parked. Turning the engine off, he stared at the side of the building and waited.

"You alright?"

"Sure," Dean said, rolling his eyes at his brother. He _wasn't_ alright.

Sam's smile was brief. "Yeah."

And that was the sum total of their conversation. They pushed their doors open and silently headed into the diner. Mary and Cas were at a table in the far corner and glanced up. They looked tired and worried and Dean just wanted to turn around and run. Instead, he sat down and ordered a black coffee and an omelette.

The desire for a cheeseburger had long since faded and even the thought of choking down a plate of eggs was unappealing. Dean knew he should be hungry, but he wasn't. In fact, the smells in the diner were making him faintly nauseous.

Mary started trying to make conversation and Cas fumbled along with her. Once again, Sam took up the brunt of the responsibility for talking to them while Dean focused on his coffee. When their meals arrived, it was a relief because everyone stopped talking.

He forced himself to eat and _tried_ to force himself not to remember.

A chair was scraped back along the floor, startling him out of a daze, and he blinked down at his plate. He'd almost eaten half of his meal without even realizing it and couldn't stomach another bite. Shaking himself from his stupor, he glanced around and found both Mary and Cas staring toward the door. He turned in time to see Sam walking outside.

Looking at his brother's plate, he found it barely touched. Apparently he wasn't the only one without an appetite. His mind was dull and he was slow to respond to the situation. It was only when Mary started pushing her own chair back that he was able to get himself in gear.

"I've got it." He met her gaze and stood up before she could.

Concern bright in her eyes, she opened her mouth, but he cut her off before she could speak.

"I've got it, Mom."

She nodded and if she was hurt, oh well. At this moment, Dean didn't care how she felt about anything. He wasn't angry with her, not really. But he also wasn't in the mood to have a conversation with her or try to make _her_ feel better.

So he left his mom and Cas behind, and stepped outside into the chill of the morning air. It was refreshing and helped ease some of the nausea. Also helped ease the trapped feeling that had started smothering him as soon as he'd walked into the diner. Once he was breathing a little easier and his chest wasn't so tight, he turned his attention to the reason he'd come out here in the first place.

Taking a look around the area, he found his brother without any trouble.

Sam was sitting on the trunk of the car, hands in his jacket pockets, staring across the highway. There wasn't any good scenery over there; just a repossessed old factory building. Dean stared at it for a moment, then walked over to his brother. Sam tore his attention from the riveting scene before him and glanced at Dean as he walked over.

"You guys finished?" Sam asked, frowning.

"I am. And apparently you were."

"You'd think I'd be starving but I'm not."

"You actually ate those crap tv dinners they served us?" Dean leaned a hip against the car and crossed his arms over his chest.

Sam snorted, a quick smile brightening his features. "There wasn't really an option, was there? Or did I miss the folder of local delivery services?"

"It was right there next to the big screen tv," Dean said, trying to keep the easy joking going even though the merest thought of that place was tightening his chest again. "Can't believe you missed it. Pizza, burgers, Chinese."

"So that's why you're not hungry?" Sam turned an assessing gaze on him. "You were eating so great in there that you didn't want any breakfast?"

Shaking his head, Dean said, "Hey, you're the one who couldn't choke down a piece of toast. I ate half my breakfast at least."

They fell into an uncomfortable silence. Dean looked away from his brother's gaze. He'd come out here to check on Sam, not to become the object of his analysis.

He stared at the building across the street as if it held answers. He already knew the questions.

 _How are you doing? How did you hold up in there? How long did it take for you to lose your mind? Did you go as crazy as I did? When did you start climbing the walls? Screaming yourself hoarse? Did you think I was dead? Did you think we were never getting out of there; never going to see each other again?_

 _Did you think we were going to die in there?_

The next breath was more difficult to draw in than the last had been. Regardless of how narrow his airways seemed to be, how small his lung capacity suddenly was, he forced himself to remain calm. On the outside at least.

He knew he should be saying something but he couldn't get his mouth to work. Cas and their mom walked out a few minutes later while he was still trying to speak. A conversation started up around him and he ignored it, pulling the keys out of his pocket and getting behind the wheel. After a moment, everyone else got into the car.

Dean started the engine and, thankfully, no one started another conversation the rest of the trip home.

* * *

Walking into the bunker, something deep inside Dean relaxed for the first time in over six weeks.

 _Home._

He managed a smile as they walked down the stairs. Sam was talking softly to Mom, but Dean wasn't paying attention. He just couldn't.

Reaching the foot of the stairs, Dean knew he needed to get himself in gear. Seven plus hours of giving everyone the silent treatment probably hadn't been the nicest thing to do. He'd left Sam to handle all the discussions and that wasn't fair.

Sam was still talking to their mom and Dean watched them walking down the hall out of sight. He sighed but didn't have it in him to follow. Instead, he headed straight for the decanter of whiskey.

"Dean?"

He jumped at the sound of Cas's voice. Trying to calm himself, he focused on pouring a shot of whiskey into the glass. Cas didn't say anything else, but Dean could feel him hovering on the periphery. He didn't want to talk to Cas. Didn't want to be angry with him for killing Billie.

But he was.

After downing the glass of whiskey, he finally spoke up, "Cas? You need something?"

"Are you...how are you doing?"

"I'm fine. Played the _get out of jail free_ card, didn't we?" Still with his back to the angel, Dean poured another shot and tried to ignore how his hand was trembling. "Well, actually, it was a _get out of jail with cosmic consequences_ card, wasn't it?"

"Dean, I did what needed to be done."

Dean spun around and said, "Did you not hear her say _cosmic consequences_?"

A heavy sigh was Cas's only response. He looked unhappy but he didn't look sorry.

Downing the second shot, Dean said, "I can't do this right now, ok?"

"I understand. I will go...renew my search for Kelly Kline and...give you some time," Cas said, sounding pained. "If you need anything-"

"We'll let you know."

Dean's throat tightened and he hated himself for not saying _thank you_ to the angel. They owed him regardless of how stupid what he'd done had been. And he _was_ grateful that they were both - _all_ \- alive. But the thought of what those cosmic consequences might be kept the words stuck in his throat like a rock.

Cas studied him for a long moment, then said, "I will be back in the morning."

Angry as he was, Dean wasn't going to banish him from the Bunker, so he nodded.

He watched Cas walk back up the stairs toward the front door, a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. There was just too much all at once and he didn't know how to unravel six weeks trapped in some freaky super-secret prison, let alone try to guess what cosmic consequences the future might hold now that Billie was dead and gone.

Maybe her death negated the cosmic consequences clause?

Shaking his head, Dean pulled his thoughts back to the present and heard his mom's voice.

"What?" he asked, setting the shot glass down and turning to look at her. "Where's Sam?"

His mom looked down the hall, then back to him, worry clear in her eyes. "He said he was going to take a shower."

Dean nodded. That made sense. That was a good idea. He should do that, too.

"Is he alright?"

Dean fought the urge to roll his eyes or to snap at her that it wasn't any of her business. But she was their mom and, despite having walked out on them a time or three, he knew she was still trying to figure out the whole _mom_ thing. And she was obviously feeling out of her element right now with everything that had just happened.

So he tamped down on his own worry and frustration, and said simply, "No."

She nodded and her gaze went back to the long hallway. A door closed. Softly. Personally, he wanted to _slam_ a few doors, but knew that was going to have to wait.

"Dean?" Mary asked, turning back to him. "What are you going to-"

"I'm gonna take a shower is what I'm gonna do." He tried out a shaky smile.

"I think I should talk-"

"No."

"I'm just going to-"

"You're gonna leave him alone." _Leave us alone,_ he whispered to himself.

"But-"

"No buts, Mom." Dean fought to keep his tone and his emotions even. "Leave him alone. For now? Ok? Just trust me on this."

He didn't know her well enough to be sure if it was anger or pure desperation in her eyes, but she nodded and backed down. Guilt weighed on his shoulders. She was their mom and she wanted to help. For once, she was trying to be there for them. The problem was that she hadn't been their mom for a very long time and she'd never been there for them before so it was a little difficult to adapt to her being here now.

All of a sudden, exhaustion slammed into him. He'd been up for over twenty-four hours - and died somewhere in the middle - but it was the mental exhaustion more than the physical that left him swaying and putting a hand out against the edge of the table as he walked by.

"Dean!" Mary was at his side in a heartbeat, hand on his shoulder.

"I'm ok."

"No. You're not."

She gently pushed him into a chair and he didn't fight it because his legs weren't so steady anymore. Settling back in the chair, Dean took a deep breath and ran his hands down his face. Until now, he hadn't even noticed the headache.

"Honey, stay there, ok? I'm going to get you something to drink and-"

"I'm ok, Mom, really."

He opened his eyes to see the same expression in her eyes as he'd seen that time he'd been running to the park and had wiped out spectacularly on the gravel. He'd hit the ground and been so stunned he hadn't even begun to cry before she was there, arms wrapping around him, pulling him onto her lap as she took in his scraped and bloody knees and hands. It had hurt, yes, but he'd started crying because _she'd_ started crying.

She looked just as worried now and the tears might not be far behind. The last thing he needed right now was for her to start crying. Forcing a smile, he said, "I probably could use a drink."

"Me too." Her smile was as shaky as his was. She squeezed his shoulder. "Stay there."

Dean watched his mother hurry from the room and he was glad she was rushing away. Because his eyes were burning with tears that were going to fall whether he liked it or not.

Suddenly it was all too much.

Six weeks in a box.

Six weeks without knowing if Sam was alive; if he was coping with the imprisonment.

Six weeks of _nothing._

Everything hit him at once and he needed to _get out._

Now.

Dean shoved himself to his feet, the chair banging into the table as he moved. Pounding up the stairs, that smothering feeling was back. Tightening his chest. Restricting his breathing.

He needed to be outside.  
Needed air.

Sun.

The sky.

 _Freedom._

The Bunker was home, but right now it was too much like that prison cell.

Dean was hyperventilating by the time his boots hit the grass. He kept walking until his breathing eased and his heart rate slowed back to something resembling normal.

Reaching the end of the grassy slope above the Bunker, he eased himself down. Leaning back against a tree, he let his fingers run through the grass as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath of fresh, non-recycled air.

It was like a little bit of heaven.

For a few minutes, he sat there, eyes closed, simply breathing. As he calmed, rational thought returned. He'd run out after his mom had told him to stay put. He'd run out without even checking on his brother. Dean shook his head, opening his eyes and staring at his left hand. It was fisted in the grass; a small indicator of how stressed he felt.

The entire seven hour trip home, he'd said less than fifty words. Hadn't managed to actually ask, even once, how his brother was doing. Guilt and anxiety warred inside him. He'd spent six weeks worrying himself sick and now that he finally had Sam back, he couldn't even ask any of the questions that mattered.

"Dean?"

He didn't look up at the sound of his mother's voice. Wasn't sure he was ready to deal with her; to try to make her feel better.

"Dean, I've got some water."

She was next to him and he found a bottle of water in his hand.

"Take a sip. Then I have some medicine."

Medicine wasn't going to cure what was wrong with him, but he obediently took a sip of water, then swallowed the pills she placed in his hand.

"Talk to me," she said softly, sitting down next to him.

Dean almost laughed but it wasn't funny. It wasn't her fault she didn't know him. Didn't know how asking him to talk was like asking him to voluntarily get on an airplane.

 _She doesn't know I hate flying and she doesn't know Sam hates clowns._

She didn't know anything about them. Not really.

He forced himself to look at her. To smile. To say, "I'm ok, Mom. Just needed to get some fresh air."

It was a rote, rehearsed speech and she probably knew it. But she didn't press.

"How have you been?" he asked. Anything to change the subject. "Been hunting?"

Mary frowned, but nodded. "A little, yes. Here and there. Cas called me and let me know what happened-"

"Yeah," he interrupted. "Thanks. For helping him out."

"I'm not sure I did much. He pretty much put the plan into action."

"He can be resourceful." Dean smiled a little. "Used to command armies."

"I don't think I'm ever going to get used to having casual conversations with an angel," she said, returning his smile. "He's very nice but...formal."

"You should'a met him eight years ago."

"Worse?" She smiled.

" _So_ much worse." Dean couldn't help but smile at the memory.

"I guess you boys have been a good influence on him."

"Not sure about that."

"He was very concerned about you two." She put her hand on his arm. "So was I."

 _Time to end this conversation._

"Thanks, Mom," he said, offering another smile. He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring her confused look, and said, "Think I'll go take that shower now."

She smiled, but it looked a little sad.

He offered his hand to pull her to her feet, then said, "Uh, if you need to...if you have somewhere you need to be…"

"I don't." She shook her head and said firmly, "I'm staying here for the time being."

Dean didn't have the heart to tell her he wished she wouldn't.

* * *

After his shower, Dean headed to his brother's room.

"Sam?" Dean nudged the door open.

The light from the hall illuminated the room enough for him to see Sam. He was fully dressed, his hair was damp, and he was asleep on top of the covers on his bed. It wasn't ideal, but at least he was sleeping.

Leaning against the door frame, Dean pressed a hand to his head. The exhaustion and stress pulsed through him like a living thing; like he was possessed by them. Weighted down, thoughts and actions slowed, Dean wanted to curl up in a tiny ball under the covers in his room and sleep for a year.

It wasn't like he hadn't slept in the prison. He'd slept a lot, truth be told. Sleep had been his only escape. From the monotony. The silence. The fear. The isolation.

His life had been fraught with an endless supply of moments he could, and had, classified as _the worst moment ever._ Six weeks in a prison where he received food and wasn't tortured really shouldn't rank very high on the list of his worst moments ever. But it did. It ranked up there pretty damn high actually.

He hadn't been beaten or tortured or starved. The accommodations hadn't been the best, but they hadn't been the worst either. But the monotony. The silence. The fear. The isolation. That was what had gotten to him.

Six weeks of silence. Of shouting till his voice was gone. Six weeks of isolation. Of not knowing what was happening in the wider world. Not knowing for sure if their plan had succeeded. Not knowing if Cas and Kelly were safe. Wondering what his mom was doing. If she even knew, or cared, that they were missing.

Six weeks of pacing a cell that shrank every single day. Six weeks of _is this the day they're gonna kill me?_ Six weeks of hating himself for his stupidity. Hating himself for every mistake that had lead up to standing in that cell.

The silence and monotony and boredom were small potatoes compared to Alistair's tortures or Purgatory's nightmares. But the helplessness, the fear, the lack of control ate away at him until he hadn't been able to take it anymore.

Which was why he'd contacted Billie.

Which was why he was standing in the Bunker now.

Dean took a shaky breath, still pressing his hand to his head where the pulsing stress and adrenaline seemed to have taken up residence. He had to make a conscious effort to push away all thoughts of the Reaper. The outcome hadn't been at all what he'd been expecting. Not at all what he'd planned. But he was having a difficult time caring.

Because they'd both made it out alive. They'd _all_ made it out alive and he really needed to send Cas a fruit basket or something to thank him even though Dean was worried, no, _terrified_ by what Cas had done.

The fear began to redouble and the living thing inside him began to squeeze until his lungs were shrinking just like that prison cell had shrunk.

And then imagining Cas holding a fruit basket, his typical puzzled expression on his face as he asked _How does a basket of fruit convey gratitude?_ flashed through Dean's mind and he found himself laughing. It was funny, but it wasn't _that_ funny, and under the circumstances, it wasn't the right time to be laughing about it.

And, just like that, the humor evaporated and Dean's stomach turned. Nothing was funny anymore and there was a very real possibility he was going to be sick all over Sam's bedroom floor.

 _Sam._

The possibility seemed more real by the second as he acknowledged the fact that, beyond the torture of the isolation, boredom, silence and helplessness, there had been the never-relenting horror of being separated from his brother. Of not knowing what was happening to him. Consequentially, Dean had spent at least 99% of the time in the prison worrying himself sick over his brother.

 _Is he eating? Are they hurting him and leaving me alone? Is he doing ok with being trapped in a small space like this? After the cage? After seeing the devil again? Oh, hell! He had to face the devil again and now he's trapped in a cell…_

 _Is he even alive?_

Well, he _was_ alive. They both were.

They were alive, but a long way from alright.

Sighing, he pulled the bedroom door closed part way. He walked back to his own room, closed the door _all_ the way, then collapsed on top of the covers on his own bed. It took half a bottle of whiskey before he fell asleep.

He didn't sleep soundly, but at least he did get some rest. When he woke up, it was mid-afternoon and the bunker was silent.

Rolling over, he rubbed his eyes then stared up at the ceiling. He should get up. Should check on his brother. Should catch up on the news from the past six weeks. Should figure out where the hell they went from here.

Should probably eat something.

His stomach was churning uncomfortably; the whiskey proving to have been a very poor choice.

Groaning, he dragged himself out of bed. His head was pounding and it took a lot of concentration to keep his stomach in check. Leaning over the sink, he splashed some cold water on his face a few times and gradually the nausea faded a bit. He ran a hand through his hair, then walked to the door. It took a moment to build up the nerve to open the door and step out into the hall.

He took a deep breath and yanked the door open. There were no worried family members hovering just outside the door. So far so good.

His first stop was his brother's room.

Empty.

The bed was rumpled, but Sam wasn't there. Taking another deep breath, Dean forced his feet to move. He walked toward the kitchen, figuring it was a good place to start.

Especially if he started with a beer.

He was a little hungry now, which was probably a good sign. Maybe there was something left in the freezer. He grimaced. It had been six weeks. There was probably stuff in the refrigerator growing mold. Wonderful. Just what he wanted to do right now. Clean the fridge. A laundry list of other things that probably needed to be dealt with after all this time flashed through his mind. The only consolation he had was that he knew for absolute certain that he had a brand new six-pack sitting in the fridge.

At least _that_ couldn't go bad.

Mood restored somewhat, he walked into the kitchen.

The lights were on, but the kitchen was empty. There was no overpowering stench speaking of rotted food, which was a good sign. Dean went straight for the fridge, steeling himself for what he might find. He held his breath, then opened the door.

 _Huh._

Nothing reeked. Nothing was growing fluffy spores. In fact, it looked like someone had cleaned out the fridge recently. Mercifully, the six-pack was still there, less two bottles. Dean pondered the state of the fridge and the missing two bottles for a moment, then gave up. He grabbed the rest of the beer, then closed the door.

Setting the beer on the table, he headed to the cupboards. Any leftovers there might have been in the fridge when they'd left to go after Kelly Kline had been disposed of and he wasn't interested in rifling through the freezer for ingredients. He reached for the box of toaster pastries in the back of the pantry. They weren't even the brand name type. They were an off brand of an un-food. They were gross. Artificial tasting and gross.

 _Of no nutritional value whatsoever,_ Sam always said.

Never stopped him from eating more than his fair share of them, much to Dean's continual amusement.

It was a brand new box and he ripped it open as he walked back to the table. Sitting down, he tore into a packet of the pastries. All of a sudden, he was starving. Usually he'd toast them so they'd at least _sort of_ taste like more than chemicals and sugar, but right now, he didn't bother to take the time. He ate one in a matter of seconds, the sugar hitting the spot and helping wake his sluggish mind. Once he'd finished the first packet, he popped the top on a bottle of beer.

It wasn't his preferred meal, not by a long shot. Cold toaster pastries and beer made strange bedfellows to say the least. At this moment, he wasn't inclined to be picky.

He was halfway through his second beer and third pack of cardboard-sugar when he heard Sam's footsteps approaching. Relieved that it wasn't his mother, Dean did wonder where she was and what she was doing. Maybe she'd been the one to clean the fridge out while they were gone?

"Hey."

Dean looked up at the sound of Sam's voice and nodded. "Hey."

Sam gave him a half-smile. He motioned at the table and said, "Nutritious meal."

"I'm a healthy guy." He tilted his beer bottle at his brother. "I've seen you eat an entire _box_ of these in one sitting."

"They're addicting." Sam shrugged, his smile widening. He crossed the room and sat down across from Dean. Grabbing a beer, he said, "You were sleeping when I checked on you earlier. Why did you get up?"

"I needed a beer." Dean watched his brother take a long drink of his own beer then frowned. "Have you eaten anything?"

Sam shook his head.

"Drinking on an empty stomach, not smart."

"We drink on empty stomachs all the time. I'm fine."

Dean studied him, wondering where on the scale of _I'm fine,_ Sam really was.

He looked alright. Tired, a little pale. Didn't look particularly traumatized or stressed, though. Didn't look like he was half-starved or half-crazed. He was dressed like he intended to go out for a run and obviously hadn't missed out on any workouts while incarcerated.

"You found time in your busy social calendar to exercise?" Dean asked, nodding at his arm.

Sam smiled and said, "World class gym. How could I skip that?"

"So you were just next door building muscle for six weeks? And here I was feeling sorry for you and thinking you were freaking out."

"Why would I freak out?"

"Because of…"

 _Lucifer. The Cage. Small cells and no freedom. Isolation. Silence. Fear._

Dean couldn't get the words out.

Sam's expression changed. He looked a little sick, but pulled himself together and said, "I did freak-out. Sometimes."

"Only sometimes?" Dean raised an eyebrow, thinking he wasn't anywhere near buzzed enough to be having this conversation. The whiskey he'd consumed earlier had been a good start, but he wasn't quite there yet so he drained the bottle of beer.

"Yeah. Only sometimes." Sam nodded. "I tried to stay busy."

Dean snorted. "Busy? You got the first-class suite? Because there wasn't much in my cozy cell to keep a flea busy."

Another smile. This one a lot smaller and more hesitant. Sam's gaze drifted toward the far wall.

"How did you stay busy?" Dean prompted. As much as it was making him sick to ask, to _remember,_ he needed to know what it had been like for his brother. "How did you do it?"

 _How did you keep yourself together? How are you this calm right now? Or are you just that good at hiding things from me?_

"I worked out," Sam said, softly, still staring blankly across the kitchen. "That helped. Some. I don't know. I tried to distract myself. Tried not to think too much."

Dean would have teased him about that because he'd _never_ known his brother to _not_ think too much. About everything. But it wasn't funny. Not really. In fact, it was pretty much the exact opposite of funny.

He'd been the one to break. The one to come up with the insane plan to contact Billie and set the whole train-wreck into motion. Sam had agreed, sure, but _Dean_ had been the one who had been desperate enough to do what he'd done. Or maybe Sam just hadn't thought about it.

Maybe he hadn't been thinking about anything.

Dean had spent the time being driven insane by the solitude. The monotony. But Sam had always been better about handling those things then he ever had.

 _I was kind of a lonely kid, Dean,_ Sam had said to him not terribly long ago.

At the time, he hadn't understood - or hadn't _wanted_ to understand - but now he kind of did. They'd both been left behind by their dad innumerable times while he'd gone off hunting. Or drinking. But they'd had each other. Once Dean had started hunting, though, he'd had Dad, but Sam hadn't had anyone. All through their adult lives, for the most part, Dean liked going out to bars and Sam preferred to stay in; either with a good book or some research to keep him busy.

Maybe he was just better at being alone than Dean was.

Dean frowned, studying his brother. Maybe Sam _was_ better at being alone, but maybe he was better at other things, too. Things like detachment. Things like dissociation. Dean wasn't an idiot. He knew some fancy, college words, too.

And he knew his brother.

Knew him and had seen him withdraw before. Seen him shut down. Dean still wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not.

"Did it work?" Dean asked, shattering the silence.

Sam frowned, his gaze drawn back to Dean. "Did what work?"

Wishing he hadn't opened his mouth in the first place, Dean said, "The not thinking thing. Did it work?"

"Sometimes." Sam smiled. "What did you do? I know you weren't doing sit-ups."

Dean snorted, reaching for another beer. "Maybe I was."

"No, you weren't."

"I did."

"What three?"

Dean relaxed a little at his brother's easy teasing and obvious amusement. He hid his smile with a glare and said, "I actually did work out. A few times a week. Most weeks."

Sam laughed.

"Oh, shut up. It was better than nothing," Dean muttered, popping the cap off his beer. "There was a _lot_ of nothing."

"Yeah. There was."

And just like that, any and all amusement disappeared.

Taking a drink, Dean found himself still waiting for the pleasant buzz. In all honesty, he was cool with skipping right past buzzed to flat out drunk. Sooner the better, in fact. It had been a _really_ long six weeks without any alcohol to dull the misery.

"How bad was the withdrawal?" Sam asked softly after several silent minutes.

Dean narrowed his eyes.

Sam gave him an all too knowing look and said, "Dude, you're a functional alcoholic. Cold turkey isn't fun."

"You drink, too," Dean shot back, offended.

"Yeah." Sam nodded, staring at his beer. "And guess what? The first week sucked."

The first week had _definitely_ sucked, but Dean wasn't in any particular hurry to discuss with his brother exactly how bad the withdrawal had been. A week of the sweats, headaches, vomiting, tremors and insomnia would have sucked if he'd been withdrawing in the Bunker. Doing it in a crappy prison cell without any medications or creature comforts whatsoever had been a really great start to the next nightmarish five weeks.

"I don't want to talk about this." Dean looked down at the table to avoid seeing the concern in his brother's eyes.

For a moment there was blessed silence, then Sam asked, "Don't want to talk about the withdrawal or the rest of it?"

"Let's go with _all_ of it," Dean snapped, straightening and slamming the bottle on the table. His head spun a little which was the only positive in the situation. It meant he was getting that much closer to fuzzy oblivion.

"Ok."

Dean had been preparing his next verbal blast, but came up short at Sam's too easy agreement. He watched his brother drain the rest of his beer, then get to his feet. Sam stood there for a moment, studying him before speaking again.

"Mom went to get food." Sam glanced at his watch. "I'm going out for a run. If you need anything, I've got my phone."

And then he was halfway to the door.

"So you're just cool with our little vacation in solitary?" Dean blurted out. As soon as he'd said it, he regretted it.

Sam froze in the doorway. Turning around, he said, "Of course I'm not."

"Because you seem pretty calm about all of it."

"You'd rather I _wasn't_ calm?" Sam raised an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't want to talk about this."

Dean _didn't_ want to talk about it and wasn't sure why he was suddenly afflicted with a bad case of word-vomit. But now that he'd opened Pandora's Box, he couldn't stop. He shook his head and said, "I'm just trying to figure out where your head is. This false calm you're projecting is creepy."

Sam snorted, then shook his head. "It's not false calm. I _am_ calm."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't be." Dean drained the bottle of beer, wishing it was something stronger. He slammed the bottle on the table then reached for another one.

"You want me to feel angry about it?" Sam asked, arms crossed over his chest. "Is that what this is about?"

"I don't care what you feel," Dean said, the words coming out louder than he'd intended. "I'm just trying to decide if you feel anything at all."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam's expression darkened and now he _did_ sound angry.

Dean was tired and drinking too fast and having trouble knowing what he was trying to say. He should stop. Should probably stop drinking. Should _definitely_ stop talking. But he didn't.

He popped the top off another bottle and asked, "So you've got nothing to say?"

"What do you want me to say?" Sam stepped closer, expression vacillating between anger and something a whole lot closer to fear. "Did it suck? Yes. It was terrible. But we'd just trapped Lucifer. Knowing that helped. It made it feel a little more meaningful."

"Meaningful?" Dean shouted, pushing himself to his feet. He swayed, one hand on the table, one wrapped around the bottle. "So you sat there the whole time, doing just fine because it was _meaningful_? I was in there losing my mind."

"Why are you yelling at me?" Sam's tone was subdued. "Look, you said you didn't want to talk about it. I was going to let you deal with this your way while I dealt with it my way."

"By running?" Dean snorted. He took a drink, then shook his head. "But that is the way you deal with stuff, isn't it?"

"You know what? We're done."

Sam turned around but before he could walk out the door, Dean said, "We were in solitary for six weeks. It's not normal to be able to handle that."

There was another long, uncomfortable silence.

"We've never been normal." Sam took a deep breath, glancing back at Dean. "I know you're angry and maybe we do need to talk about this, but not now."

"You're right. I'm angry," Dean spat, glaring at his brother. "Maybe I shouldn't be. Maybe I should be glad you were able to sit back and rationalize it because we'd done something for the greater good. I guess I should be glad you were able to maintain your positive outlook while I was _losing my mind._ Hey, sorry I got Billie involved. Didn't realize I was messing with your zen mojo next door. If I'd known you were doing just fine I never would have-"

"Sometimes it didn't feel real, ok?" Sam interrupted softly, staring at the ground. His hands were fisted at his sides.

Dean's next words got stuck in his throat like a big, huge, sharp rock.

"Sometimes it felt like it was happening to someone else." Sam still didn't look up. "Sometimes it was easier that way."

"Sam…" Dean's voice trailed off.

He had no idea what to say. The fury burning in his veins was still there, but something else was flooding through him, too. He sat down when his legs refused to hold up any longer. Sam finally looked at him and Dean wished he'd never started this conversation. The alcohol curdled in his gut when Sam spoke again.

"I guess I've just had plenty of practice."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer. There was a lot more going on under the surface than he'd been able to see past his own anger.

"I know what it's like to be in a cage for a long time, Dean." Sam shrugged. He suddenly looked completely drained. "At some point, all you can really do is accept it."

And then he was gone.

Dean was left alone in the kitchen feeling like he'd just been thrown into an ice cold ocean without a life preserver.

 _tbc..._

* * *

 ** _Thanks for reading! There is more to come!_**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Hello! So...this was supposed to have been posted Monday like usual, but life has a way of really making things interesting, does it not? Long story short, had to deal with a cancer diagnosis, a quite impressive incision and nine stitches to my arm following a minor surgery to remove the cancer. The weekend was full of ice packs and stress and HGTV lol. The Lord blessed me greatly, though, and I got a good report this week that they got it all. :) Needless to say, my brain wasn't cooperating with me for writing. Finally, though, this chapter made it through a multitude of revisions and improvements, thanks to my lovely, patient, wonderful beta, and it's ready to go! :)**_

 ** _Thank you all for your amazing and encouraging reviews to chapter one. I wish I'd had the focus to write you all back to personally thank you, but that hasn't quite happened yet. ;)_**

 ** _Hope you enjoy the chapter!_**

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

Sam ran fast and hard.

Too fast and too hard considering he'd just downed a beer on an empty stomach. Didn't help that he was out of shape. All the push ups and sit ups he'd done while imprisoned had been great, but they didn't count as training for an all out run.

He ran like something was chasing him, and maybe something was. Regardless of his need to put some distance between him and his brother, his body gave out on him after a mile.

Gasping for breath, he stopped running and leaned forward, hands on his thighs. It wasn't enough. A wave of lightheadedness swept over him and he fell to his knees. The gravel bit into his fingers and the pain helped him to focus. Breathing through the nausea, he eased himself down until he was flat on the ground.

Closing his eyes, he rested one hand against his stomach, his other hand still pressed into the gravel at his side. There was a very real possibility he was going to throw up. Dean had been right. Drinking that beer without eating anything had been a stupid idea.

He swallowed hard, fighting not to throw up or pass out. Both options seemed equally likely and both options were equally distasteful. It took several minutes before the sensations eased, leaving him exhausted and unable to move. The only positive in all of this was that Dean was back at the Bunker no doubt drinking himself senseless which meant it was unlikely he was going to be attempting to track Sam down.

Of course, thinking about his brother didn't do anything but make the nausea even worse.

Sam opened his eyes and stared up at the cloudy sky. It looked like it was going to rain any moment now, so hopefully he could get off the ground before it started. His stomach flip-flopped and he pushed himself to his side, panting shallowly in an attempt to stave off vomiting.

It took another few minutes of concentration and berating himself for his stupidity before the sensations eased. Wrapping both arms around his stomach, he closed his eyes. Unbidden, thoughts of his conversation with his brother sprang to mind.

" _We were in solitary for six weeks. It's not normal to be able to handle that."_

It _wasn't_ normal. Nothing about the situation was normal. But, like he'd said, they weren't normal. _He_ wasn't normal.

Their entire discussion had gone off the rails. Even though he'd tried to walk away when Dean's frustration had taken them from conversation to argument, he hadn't escaped in time. His brother's words had hurt; whether he'd really meant for them to or not.

What he'd wound up admitting to his brother had been a mistake and he wished with everything in him that he could take it back.

Of course, if Dean hadn't been verging on a complete loss of control, he wouldn't have been pushed into the confession in the first place. Despite hating himself for his moment of weakness, he was more worried about his brother. The trip home had passed quietly, calmly, and he'd deluded himself into thinking maybe they both could just file the past six weeks away and move on without incident.

Obviously he'd been wrong.

Dean had been falling apart in front of him in a way Sam hadn't seen in quite awhile. His anger had come through very clearly, but it was the underlying fear and anxiety that had been far more concerning. Anger was a tool Dean used. It was a smokescreen that hid any hint of vulnerability. Anyone else might have only seen the anger and simply fought back. But Sam wasn't just anyone. He was the only person in the world who knew Dean better than he knew himself.

And Sam had seen straight past the anger to the raw pain tearing his brother into pieces.

He didn't blame Dean for the anger; thought he had a right to be angry, actually. Sam had spent a lot of time feeling angry, too. He'd felt a lot of things, in fact.

Until he'd given up feeling anything.

A fat, cold, raindrop hit him on the cheek and he forced his eyes open. The sky was darker, the clouds heavier and he'd lost time somewhere along the way. That wasn't good. He checked his watch and, sure enough, he'd walked out of the Bunker over an hour ago.

Struggling upright wasn't an easy process, but he managed to do it without any issues. He had one hand braced in the gravel, just in case, when his phone started ringing. Pulling it out, he was surprised to see it was his mom calling. For a moment, he hesitated to answer the call. What was he going to say to her? And then the concern that something might have happened to Dean hit him. If she was calling him, it meant she hadn't been able to get ahold of his brother.

Sam answered the phone.

" _Hi, Sam?"_ Her tone was tentative, but concerned.

"Hi, Mom. What's up?" Sam cringed. He'd tried to sound upbeat but instead sounded strangled and hoarse.

" _Where are you boys? I just got back and I can't get ahold of Dean and I can't find either of you..."_

So Dean wasn't still in the kitchen drinking.

" _...and the Impala is still here but his room is empty and…"_

Sam frowned, trying to pay attention to what she was saying and construct a good response. He was concerned, but had a strong feeling Dean didn't want to be found right now. He was probably holed up somewhere dark and secluded with his own private stash of booze.

"I went for a run," Sam interrupted her. He stared up as the rain began to fall in earnest. "Dean...uh, he had some stuff he wanted to check up on. Maintenance. You know? We haven't been gone this long since we moved in."

It sounded like a pretty good excuse.

" _Oh, ok."_ She sounded convinced. " _It was getting pretty cloudy on my way back from town. You should probably head back before the storm hits."_

Sam blinked against the rain and said, "Yeah. It's just started raining."

" _Are you far?"_

He smiled ruefully; not about to admit he'd gone a mile and then been crumpled on the side of the path for an hour.

So he cleared his throat and said, "No, not too far. I'll be back shortly."

" _Ok. Sam?"_

"Yeah?"

" _Are you alright?"_

He squeezed his eyes closed, throat tight, wishing she hadn't asked that. After sucking in a slightly painful breath, he said, "I'm good. I'll be back soon."

And then he hung up before she could say anything else.

* * *

By the time he made it to the door of the bunker, Sam was verging on collapse again. He was bone-tired, light-headed, soaked, and unsteady. Stumbling down the steps, he clung to the railing because the last thing he needed was to wind up falling on his face in front of his mother.

Mercifully, she wasn't in the room and he made it to the ground floor without incident. He was heading down the hall toward his room when he heard her voice, though. Pausing, he forced a smile and turned around.

"Sam," she said, her greeting smile fading as she closed the space between them. "You're soaked."

"Yeah. Didn't run fast enough," he joked, leaning a shoulder against the wall to hold himself up. The truth was, he hadn't run at all. He _had_ managed to walk and not crawl, so that was something, anyway.

She frowned, stopping a couple feet away. "You look terrible."

He felt terrible, but wasn't inclined to share that fact.

"You should-"

"I'm just gonna go change into dry clothes," he interrupted, tugging at the collar of his soaked t-shirt.

"Ok. And then come to the kitchen. You haven't eaten, have you?"

Rather than answering the question, he simply said, "Ok," and then walked away.

She didn't argue with him or follow him. Sam traced his fingers along the wall as he walked. He didn't want to eat, but knew at this point it wasn't optional. His hands were shaking and he'd pushed himself as far as he could go. So he changed into dry clothes, ignored the bed he wanted to fall into, and slowly walked back to the kitchen.

His mom was sitting at the table, a cup of coffee in her hands.

He sat down across from her, relieved to be off his feet.

"Coffee?" she asked, already rising.

"Sure."

"Do you want anything in it?" She crossed the room for a clean cup.

"Black's fine."

She poured the coffee, then set the cup in front of him. "Are you hungry?"

He wasn't, not really, but knew he should eat so he nodded.

"I picked up some stuff for sandwiches," she said, looking back at the counter where at least six grocery bags were piled. "There's a roast and some potatoes."

He tried to focus as she listed everything else she'd bought. Thinking about food was making him nauseous and even the scent of the coffee was bothering him. Taking a controlled breath, he tried to decide on something. Cereal seemed to be the easiest thing, but a salad made with _fresh_ vegetables and non-plastic-y chicken did sound good.

He started to get up.

"I'll get it," she said, pushing him gently back into his seat. "Just tell me what you want."

She _needed_ to do something; it was obvious. They hadn't seen her for several weeks before they'd been arrested and she hadn't exactly been the mothering type at any point along the way. This situation was throwing her into a role she wasn't comfortable with, but she was trying. When he asked for a salad, she smiled and seemed relieved.

He watched her work, a little tension easing as he marveled at the fact his mother was preparing him a salad. Despite the bumps in the road along the way, it was still mind-blowing that she was alive. It was amazing that he was getting to know her - however minimally; and that she cared enough to stick around - however infrequently.

"How are you holding up after…" her voice trailed off as she placed the salad and a glass of water in front of him.

She seemed uncomfortable and uncertain and for the billionth time in his life, he wished he'd known her before she'd died. Had she _ever_ been what he'd always imagined her to be? That line of thought was dangerous, though, so he shut it down right away and smiled.

"I'm ok, Mom."

He was. He'd been through so much worse. But he wasn't going to tell her that; not that she would ever ask. It had been a long six weeks, but it was in the past now.

 _Thirty-six hours in the past, but who was counting?_

Despite his reassurance, her eyes were filled with worry as she sat down. Sam had to look away because he still wasn't sure how to handle her concern. He forced himself to eat. It helped. The coffee eased the chill he'd been trying to ignore and the salad did help settle his stomach.

To keep the conversation focused away from him, he asked questions about the hunts she'd been working while they were gone. It helped them both. The avoidance. Sam could tell she wanted to help and that, in her own way, she was trying, but it was also clear she didn't have a clue what to say. It was easier to discuss her cases than it ever would be to discuss the prison.

He was beginning to relax a little by the time he'd finished eating. Even so, he was relieved when her phone rang and he didn't have to try to keep the conversation going any longer. Apologizing, she answered it while taking the dishes over to the sink. Sam stared into his second cup of coffee, half-listening to her conversation, half-wondering where his brother was and if he'd boozed himself into oblivion by now or not.

"Sam?"

His head snapped up at the sound of her voice. She was looking at him with worry in her eyes again, but he ignored it and asked, "What's up?"

"That was Cas. He wanted me to help him with some research on Kelly."

"Sure. What does he need?" Sam ran his hand over his face, trying to shake the lethargy.

"Sam, we've got it." She smiled. "If I need you, I'll come get you. But I've got it. You should go get some more sleep."

Sleep was probably not a bad idea all things considered, but he needed to find his brother first. Dean was still hiding somewhere in the Bunker and he wasn't doing maintenance. It would be easier to deal with Dean if their mom wasn't hovering, though, so he nodded and said, "Just let me know if you need something."

"I will." She started to walk away, then paused and said, "Let me know if you need anything, too. Ok? I'll just be in the library if you need me or want to talk or anything."

Sam nodded and smiled. "Thanks, Mom."

She returned his smile and left the room.

He hated himself for being relieved.

* * *

Feeling a little stronger after having eaten, Sam muscled past the fatigue and went searching for his brother. It was more difficult to find him than he'd expected, which meant Dean had been attempting to hide from not just their mother, but from _him._ The thought might have stung a few years ago, but it didn't now because he understood his brother better than he had in years.

And, because he understood his brother better than he had in years, Sam found Dean despite his attempts to _not_ be found.

The only thing that surprised Sam was the fact his brother wasn't drunk.

"Dean," Sam said, leaning on the doorframe of one of the remote, mostly-empty file rooms they'd done nothing with since they'd moved into the Bunker.

"Hey." Dean looked up from across the room. He crouched back against the wall, brushing his hands off on his jeans. "What's up?"

Sam smiled. Leave it to his brother to act like absolutely nothing had happened earlier. He nodded to the bookshelf Dean apparently was in the process of tearing down and asked, "Remodeling?"

"It was broken." Dean patted the bookshelf, then pushed himself to his feet. "Figured now was as good a time as any to start cleaning up these rooms."

Translation? He needed a project to occupy his mind and this was what he'd found.

Sam wasn't going to argue. He was too relieved that Dean had found a method of coping that didn't involve liver failure. He seemed better. The anger was gone; tension released from his posture. His eyes were clearer, less panicked. He didn't look _trapped_ any more. He looked like he had a purpose. He looked focused.

"Did you need something?" Dean asked, pulling one of the shelves off and setting the piece of wood aside.

"No. Uh...not really."

Sam floundered a bit. He'd come to make sure Dean wasn't face down in a pile of his own vomit. Having found him busy with something productive rather than something alcohol related, Sam was at a loss. It was a good development, but he wasn't sure how to handle it. He watched his brother finish tearing down the ancient bookshelf, wondering what had caused the abrupt change in Dean's methods and demeanor. Dean had been so angry earlier that it was jarring to find him so _calm_.

Dean paused in his work, his gaze focused as he asked, "How was the run?"

"Good."

"Must've been. You were gone a long time." There was a casual challenge in his tone.

"Not that long."

"Mom back?" Dean started pulling off another shelf.

"Yeah. She's helping Cas with some research." Sam caught a bit of trepidation on Dean's face before he schooled his expression. Sam didn't feel up to trying to determine the reason for it, though. He simply said, "She was worried when she couldn't get ahold of you."

"Didn't bring my phone."

Sam wasn't surprised.

"Hey," Dean interrupted his thoughts.

"What?"

"You wanna go for a drive?"

Frowning at the out of the blue question, Sam asked, "Uh...why?"

"Don't need a reason." Dean shrugged. He stared down at the neat pile of boards he'd lined up against the wall and said, "I'm sorry. About earlier."

"You don't have to be sorry. You were pissed and I get it, ok? I do. You were angry with good reason." Sam caught his brother's gaze and added, "If you need to talk about it, we can. If you want to go for a drive, that's fine, too. Whatever you need, man."

Dean shook his head, then ran his hand through his hair. He took a frustrated breath. "It's not just about what _I_ need."

Sam stiffened. He had no interest in getting this turned around on him again. Because, he was _fine._ If Dean needed to talk and get this off his chest, Sam would listen. But he had no intention of repeating his mistake from earlier. He wasn't going to start talking. He didn't _need_ to talk. All he had to do was hold it together while Dean worked his way through the mess, and then they could never bring the matter up again.

"You said it didn't feel real."

Sam's breath caught in his throat and he shifted uncomfortably.

 _Downplay. Evade. Escape._

He shrugged. "I said _sometimes_ it didn't feel real."

"Six weeks I was in there, and never _once_ did it not feel real." Dean's voice was low. Harsh. Pained. "It felt real every single minute of every single day."

The words were like the ice cold rain. Sam's heart was pounding so loud he figured Dean could hear it all the way across the room. This was not going well at all. Selfishly, he had a passing moment of wishing he _had_ found his brother drunk rather than occupied with _Flip or Flop: Bunker-Style._ He did not want to be having this conversation, but apparently Dean had sobered up just so he could give a lecture.

Trying to diffuse the situation before they wound up in another shouting match, Sam said, "Look, what I said earlier, it was stupid, ok? I was tired and not thinking straight. I was just trying to let you know you weren't alone-"

"I _was_ alone and so were you," Dean interrupted, stepping closer.

"I know that. Why do you have to keep making such a big deal out of this?" Sam shoved his hands in his pockets when they started shaking. "We're not there anymore."

"No. We're not. Doesn't mean I can just forget what happened."

Sam nodded, staring at the far wall.

"And it doesn't mean I'm gonna forget what you said."

"Seriously?" Sam gritted his teeth. _He's like a dog with a damned bone_. "I'm sorry I ever said anything. I was getting sick of you yelling at me. It's not a big deal."

"Yes, it is."

"Why?"

"Because the last time you said things didn't feel real, you were hallucinating."

Sam went even colder, but shook his head. "I'm not hallucinating. Is that what you're worrying about? That I'm losing my mind again? That you can't trust me?"

"No," Dean said, and he sounded like he was being honest.

"Then what is it?"

"I'm worrying about _you_."

"You don't need to. I'm fine."

"Are you?"

"Yes!" Sam hated the blatant concern in his brother's eyes. "I'm _fine._ Don't project onto me if you're still having issues!"

"Of course, I'm still having issues," Dean said, but he wasn't yelling. If anything, his tone was softer, gentler. "And you are, too."

"The only issue I have right now is you." Maybe it had been more harsh than he'd intended, but Sam didn't care. He said, "Whatever you think is going on, you're wrong. I'm fine. I _am_ fine. I'm not losing my mind or about to have a nervous breakdown."

Dean started to say something, but Sam didn't give him the chance.

"It sucked, yeah, and I'm sorry it's still bothering you, but it's over. We're out."

"Sam."

"Go for a drive if you want to." Sam looked at Dean and hoped his eyes weren't revealing as much of what he was feeling as his brother's were. "I'm going to go help Mom."

Dean didn't respond or try to stop him.

* * *

Sam didn't go help their mom.

He went to his room, closed the door, and tried not to have a nervous breakdown.

"I'm _fine,_ " he said aloud for what must have been the tenth time.

He _was_ fine and it annoyed him that he was having to spend so much time verifying it to everyone; including himself.

He'd been fine as they escaped the prison. Focused as they'd fought through the woods. But now things were completely out of control and he didn't know how to put any of it back together. If he'd just kept his mouth shut. If he hadn't been a complete idiot and said what he'd said, Dean would've gotten his anger and frustration out and then they could have moved on and forgotten the entire mess.

He'd handled everything wrong, though, and instead of making his brother feel better, all he'd done was fire up his overactive imagination. Now Dean was making up scenarios in his head and ignoring the very obvious truth of the matter. Sam was, in fact, fine. Other than an ever-increasing headache, he was fine.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and pressed shaky fingers against his throbbing head. Going for any painkillers seemed like too much trouble and he wasn't in the mood to run into Dean or his mother, so he resigned himself to suffering through the headache.

After a few minutes, he flopped onto his back and stared at the ceiling fan in the dim light shining from under the door. He tried to think about anything _but_ his conversation with his brother and failed spectacularly. No matter how he attempted to clear his mind, he failed. The more he thought about their conversation, the more his heartbeat seemed to stutter in his chest.

Because thinking about the conversation led to thinking about the prison which led to thinking about a lot of other stuff he was very eager _never_ to think about again.

He tossed and turned, fighting off memories and nightmares of cages and basements and prisons. The remembered horror of thinking he would never see his brother again gripped him until his lungs struggled to draw in air and he sat up, gasping.

It was so stupid, this kind of reaction. So stupid and unnecessary. They were both fine. They hadn't been hurt - not physically anyway.

They were alive and so was their mom and so was Cas and Lucifer was out of the president and locked up again and really everything had turned out pretty damn great so why was he sweating and why was his heart pounding and why was he squeezing his left hand?

Sam sucked in a shocked breath when he realized what he had been doing. A familiar chill ran down his spine as he tore his hands apart. It was idiotic. Idiotic and nothing more than a sign of his stress and distraction. It didn't mean anything. It didn't mean _anything._

Fumbling for the switch, he turned on the lamp, then tried to bring the clock into focus. Maybe he should go help his mom with some research. Maybe sitting alone in the near dark wasn't the best idea after all. Maybe…

He shook his head, shocked as he stared at the clock. It didn't seem possible.

Four-thirty in the morning?

"No," he said aloud in the too quiet room.

It couldn't be. Couldn't be possible. It had been late afternoon. It had _just_ been late afternoon when he'd walked into his room. He'd only been tossing and turning for a short time, definitely not for the entire night. It wasn't possible.

Was it?

A tendril of paranoia wrapped around his throat, making it difficult to breathe. He shook his head, running his hands through his hair and forcing himself to think logically. He was distracted. That was all it was. His thoughts had been running in circles and he hadn't even realized how much time had been passing. It made sense.

He wasn't losing his mind. It wasn't happening again. He wasn't slipping back to easier habits. This was nothing like it had been in the prison. This was just exhaustion plain and simple. In the prison, sure, he'd shut down a time or two. _More than that,_ his traitorous mind whispered. This, though? This was different.

And so what if he _had_ blocked it all out sometimes? What was so wrong with that anyway? Why did his brother insist on making a mountain out of a molehill? What Dean really needed to be doing was dealing with his own problems.

Sam had _known_ that Dean would have a difficult time sitting in that prison. Every day, he'd worried. Dean had never in his entire life done well being still.

With being helpless.

Dad had said he'd been a squirmy kid; never sitting still, always running at one-hundred and ten percent. Hunting had helped give his boundless energy some focus; for better or for worse. Sam had known it growing up, had witnessed it their entire adult lives. Dean needed to be able to do _something._

Anything.

He needed to be active and he needed his mind stimulated and he needed to have a purpose. Being helpless and locked in a small cell with no outside contact was the exact opposite of what he needed. Dean could fight back against anything or anyone, but he couldn't fight back against isolation.

It might not have made sense to anyone else, but Sam had completely understood when Dean had said the prison had been worse than hell. At least in hell Dean had been able to fight back. He'd had an enemy he could mouth off to. Could fight against with everything he had in him. In the prison, the only thing _either_ of them had been able to fight was their own minds.

Sam locked his hands behind his neck and lowered his head.

Isolation had been a mixed blessing for him. On one hand, it hadn't been so bad. No one had tortured him, beat him up, or pumped him full of drugs and messed with his mind. What more could he have hoped for?

On the other hand, it _had_ been torture. Not knowing how Dean was doing. Not knowing if they were going to live out the rest of their lives separated by a wall, never knowing if the other was even still alive. It had had also afforded his mind an opportunity to mess with itself - to slip into a place it hadn't gone in a long time. A place where it was easier to shut down than to deal with anything. It had been a relief, really.

Dean had been angry and helpless and Sam had thought he was doing the right thing by showing his brother how calm he was; how unaffected he was. Thought he'd said the right things. Had tried to reassure his brother that he'd held up ok in the prison. Which he _had._ Sure, it had taken a little loosening on his grip of reality at times which really didn't seem any worse than punching walls and yelling.

But Dean hadn't been reassured and Sam didn't know where to go from here.

Sighing, he pushed himself to his feet and decided he might as well start his day. Sitting around moping and doubting himself wasn't getting him anywhere. He was still dressed; hadn't even taken his running shoes off yesterday.

He slipped out into the hall and held his breath but didn't hear any movement from anywhere in the Bunker. With any luck Dean and their mom were still sound asleep. Even so, he walked as quietly as possible to the kitchen.

It was deserted, so he made a pot of coffee and poured a bowl of cereal. Going for a run, an _actual_ run, would be the perfect way to shake himself out of...whatever this was. Maybe after a good night's sleep, Dean would be feeling back to normal.

 _Yeah, right._

He finished the cereal, then concentrated on his coffee, longing for the moment it would wake him fully.

It didn't, though, and he found himself struggling to keep his eyes open. It was only quarter to five. He still had probably thirty minutes until his mom would be up and maybe an hour before Dean. Sam decided he could relax for a couple minutes and still make it out for a run before they woke up.

So he rested his head on his arms and closed his eyes.

* * *

Sam heard voices at some point, but the overpowering lethargy convinced him he didn't really care. Didn't care who the voices belonged to. Didn't care what they were saying.

 _Didn't care whether they were real or not._

The voices drifted away, or maybe he did. Either way, it was blessedly silent for an indeterminable amount of time.

Sometime later, he sensed movement nearby. It didn't feel threatening, so he didn't bother reaching for the weapon he didn't even have on him. Slowly, things began to filter into his sluggish mind.

He smelled coffee. Heard the fridge door opening and closing quietly. The table shifted as someone sat down. He could picture his brother sitting there in that ugly dead-guy robe of his.

"Good dream?"

"Hmm?" Sam wasn't invested enough to move or attempt to speak actual words.

"You're smiling," Dean said, his voice soft. Amused. It sounded like he was turning the pages of a newspaper.

Sam forced his eyes open. His head was still pillowed against his arms and he was staring at the wall. Looking around as far as he could without actually lifting his head, he caught sight of his brother, sitting with his back to the wall, newspaper in front of him, coffee cup in hand. Wearing that ugly dead-guy robe of his, as expected.

Dean smirked when he caught him looking.

"Not sure if you got the memo," he said, folding up the newspaper, "but you do have a bed in your room."

Sam didn't bother to say _been there, tried that._ Instead, he pushed himself upright, rested his elbows on the table, and pressed his hands to his face.

"Coffee?"

Nodding, Sam stared at the table while his brother got up and poured the coffee. He straightened when the cup was placed in front of him and Dean took a seat again.

"You're up early," Sam said, once he'd finished half of his coffee.

"Good morning to you, too. And it's not that early, dude."

Sam frowned, squinting at his watch.

It was almost eight.

"What time'd you get up?" Dean asked, resting his elbows on the table.

"Uh. Earlier." _A lot earlier._

"I figured that, genius." Dean snorted and said, "We found you here around six-thirty. Did you sleep at all last night?"

"I don't know," Sam heard himself say, even though he'd meant to say _yes._ He shrugged and forced a _yes_ past numb lips.

"Yeah, I'm gonna go with an absolute _no._ "

Ignoring the comment, Sam closed his eyes for a minute. When he opened his eyes again, he was surprised to see his brother standing at the end of the table, arms crossed. He didn't look happy at all. Sam realized he could smell eggs and bacon.

He looked beyond his brother and asked, "When did you make breakfast?"

"Just now after you decided to space out on me for the last ten minutes," Dean said, his frown deepening. His voice sounded too loud in the quiet room.

"I didn't…" Sam couldn't finish the statement.

It had only seemed like a few seconds, but a glance at the clock revealed his brother was telling the truth. No wonder Dean was frowning. Sam looked at the table, then around the kitchen. They were safely sitting in the Bunker but it didn't seem right somehow. The room looked dull and far away. He shook his head, trying to dispel the fog.

"Alrighty," Dean said, pointing to the door. "Nice chat. Go to bed."

"I'm not going back to bed now."

"Yeah. You are." Dean went to the stove as the bacon started sizzling. After turning the burner down a bit, he leaned back against the counter and said, "You obviously didn't sleep last night and your little nap on the table earlier wasn't enough. You can't even keep your eyes open."

"More coffee would solve that problem." Sam smiled, straightening and trying to look awake. Dean didn't smile, just shook his head so Sam switched tactics and said, "We should check up on Cas."

"He called earlier. He's following his own leads right now."

There was an angry undercurrent to the words that made Sam pause. He hadn't thought much about how quickly Cas had left the Bunker, but looking at his brother right now, maybe he should have. It was probably a terrible time to prod Dean for answers and Sam knew he should leave it alone.

He opened his mouth anyway. "Cas didn't hang around long after we got back. Took off before I even got out of the shower. Did something happen?"

"No." The anger seemed closer to the surface this time, but Dean was apparently done with the subject. Without another word, he turned back to the stove to deal with the bacon and eggs. "You want something to eat before you go back to bed or you want me to save it?"

"I already ate," he said, looking for the bowl he'd used for cereal.

He barely remembered eating earlier. It was like it had happened a lifetime ago. The bowl was gone which meant Dean must have washed it at some point.

"If you're not gonna eat, go back to bed," Dean said as he sat down with a plate laden with eggs and bacon.

"I won't be able to sleep."

Dean smirked as he stabbed his fork into a pile of eggs and said, "If I stop talking to you, you'll fall asleep right there."

It really was a strong possibility, Sam had to admit. The fatigue pressing down on him was unrelenting. He kept telling himself to get up and leave, but his brain didn't seem to be connected to his body anymore.

Dean was apparently intent on proving his point, too, because he'd stopped talking. He just sat there watching with eagle eyes waiting, no doubt, for the moment Sam would fall asleep.

"Where's Mom?" Sam rubbed his eyes and tried to focus. "Maybe we should try to -"

"Mom's fine. She caught a case and she doesn't need us."

There were many ways to interpret that statement, but Sam chose to take it at face value right now. He asked, "When did she leave?"

"About an hour ago. I don't think she knew what to do here." Dean ran a hand through his hair; he looked conflicted. "I mean, I don't even blame her this time. _I_ don't know what to do."

"About what?" Sam asked, only half-awake and even less interested in speaking.

"About us."

"What about us?"

Dean sighed but he seemed more unsure than annoyed. He stared down at his coffee for a few seconds, one finger aimlessly tapping a beat on the side of the cup. Then he looked up and said, "I think we need to talk about what happened."

"We _have_ talked about it." Sam was tired of rehashing the same conversation but too tired to walk away from the table.

"Have we? How I remember it, I got drunk and did a lot of yelling. You said some stuff-"

"I said I was fine."

Dean's half-smile was weary. He shook his head and said, "Neither of us is fine."

Sam frowned; it wasn't exactly like his brother to admit stuff like that.

"Hear me out." Dean held up a hand to stave off the argument Sam hadn't even been able to formulate yet.

"I'm listening."

"Ok." Dean took a deep breath. "This isn't about me thinking you're crazy or not trusting you to have my back. But I know you, Sam. And you're not as fine as you're telling yourself you are."

Sam set his coffee cup down a little harder than he'd intended. "Dean-"

"I was _there,_ Sam," Dean interrupted. "For six weeks I was losing my mind. I didn't know what was happening to you and there wasn't anything I could do about any of it.. I'm...I just want to put it behind me and forget it ever happened but I can't. I don't think you can either. No matter how much we both want to I just...I'm not sure how to deal with it."

Sam nodded, his defensive fight or flight instinct quashed by the raw vulnerability in his brother's tone.

"I was climbing the walls."

"So that's what that noise was." Sam's teasing seemed weak to his own ears, but Dean smiled.

His smile faded quickly, though, and he looked troubled. Dean took a sip of coffee, then said, "I slept a lot. Or tried to anyway. I mean, I wasn't napping for the beauty rest. It was the only way I could get a break from it. I couldn't stop thinking. About you. About Cas and Kelly and Mom and what was happening out here."

"I knew it was hard for you. To be cooped up like that with nothing to do."

Dean nodded slowly, his jaw tight. His hands were fisted against the table and there was a tension in his posture that hadn't been there a minute ago. After a few seconds, he visibly forced himself to relax, unclenching his fists and shrugging his shoulders.

"I could've dealt with the rest of it. I mean, I dealt with hell. Or, maybe didn't." Dean smirked, but there was no humor behind it. "At least then I knew...well, at least I _thought,_ you were ok. But knowing you were in there, too… I mean, a concrete wall was the only thing between us...but we might as well have been on different planets. Boredom would've driven me insane in another month or two, but not knowing what was happening to you? That was the one damn thing I couldn't handle."

Sam nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"That guy was right," Dean said softly. "Back there. He told me I'd go crazy just sitting there alone. That I'd need to talk and I'd tell him whatever he wanted to know."

"He said the same thing to me."

 _You'll get so crazy to talk, to see someone real…_ The words had shaken him at the time and still left him with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"It was psychological warfare, man," Dean said, staring into his cup. "And it worked."

"No, it didn't-"

"It _did_. It worked. Sure, we didn't blab out all the stuff they wanted to know, but we made a deal with a _Reaper_ to get out. I couldn't take another minute in there, Sam." There was undisguised desperation in his tone. "I would've...I don't know. I really don't know."

The discussion was taking a toll on both of them. Dean looked wrung out and in pain. He ran a hand through his hair, then pushed himself up from the table. Sam watched, heart in his throat, trying to think of the right thing to say. He was afraid his brother was going to disappear from the room, but he merely went for the pot of coffee. It was empty.

Holding the pot up, his back to Sam, Dean asked, "You want more?"

He didn't, but said he did just so Dean would have something to do. They were silent as the coffee brewed. Once Dean had poured them both a fresh cup, he sat back down, but the silence continued.

Sam wrapped his hands around the coffee cup, telling himself that he could feel the heat beneath his fingers.

"I kept thinking I was going to die in there," Dean said, staring blankly at the table. "The dying wouldn't have been so bad, I guess. At least it would've been a way out. But I couldn't...I couldn't stand the thought of facing that without knowing what happened to you. If you were even still alive or if you'd ever get out or...or if you'd already died." Dean finally looked at Sam, holding his gaze through the steam rising from his cup of coffee. "Another few weeks and who knows? They might have started telling us stuff like that just to see what we'd do."

"They might have," Sam agreed. He'd considered the same haunting possibility. "But they didn't and it doesn't matter what _might_ have happened. We got out and that's the important thing _._ "

Dean nodded, but didn't look any less troubled. After a minute, he asked, "How bad did it get?"

Sam rubbed his free hand on his jeans; palms suddenly sweaty. A part of him still wanted to walk away. To bury everything, move on, and never bother to deal with any of it. The entire conversation was pressing down on him until each breath he drew was more difficult than the last. Maybe his brother was right, though. Maybe they did need to talk it through. Obviously Dean was struggling to deal with what had happened.

And so was he.

Sam stared at a few scattered droplets of spilled coffee on the table, suddenly so tired it hurt.

"Sammy?"

Glancing up, he met Dean's concerned gaze. He _wanted_ to help and Sam wanted to let him. Something deep inside his chest relaxed a little, but he was still jittery and unsure. He swallowed hard, then asked, "Do you think it's going to make you feel better if you know?"

"Probably not." Dean's smile was brief. He leaned forward and said, "Tell me anyway."

His defenses fell like a house of cards at the open encouragement and he said, "The walls started closing in pretty quickly."

"Yeah, they did." Dean huffed. He shifted, squaring his shoulders like maybe the walls were closing in on him right now.

"The food sucked, the bed sucked, it was always cold," Sam listed off, trying not to shiver at the remembered chill. "I knew you were going crazy and there wasn't anything I could do to help you."

Dean nodded, taking a deep breath. He looked torn between anger and defeat and Sam knew the helplessness of being trapped was still weighing on him.

"I thought we were going to die in there and…" Sam left the statement unfinished and took a sip of coffee that he couldn't even taste.

"And?" Dean prompted gently.

"I couldn't... I was afraid..." He shook his head, struggling to find the right words. "I didn't want to die alone."

It sounded pathetic and weak, but it was the truth. As often as he'd been unfortunate enough to experience death, he'd always had his brother at his side and his presence had been comforting. The thought of dying completely alone without Dean even _knowing_ he'd died terrified him. Sure, it had happened when Billie had reaped them, but they'd both agreed to that and had both known what to expect.

Talking with the Reaper had been the first contact - however indirect - that he'd had with his brother in six weeks. He'd been more than willing to let her take him in the end as long as Dean was free. At least they could have been together when it happened instead of being separated by a concrete wall.

"I didn't want to die alone, either," Dean's quiet voice drew him back to the present.

Sam nodded, looking back at the coffee spill on the table.

After a moment, Dean broke the silence. When he spoke, it was obvious he was choosing his words carefully. "You said sometimes it didn't feel real. How bad did it get?"

"It was getting more difficult at the end," Sam admitted, his throat tight.

The confession had been simple, but he was sick with knowledge of everything the confession _hadn't_ revealed. Sick with the memory of exactly how difficult it had been to keep things straight. Of how quickly he had begun to doubt reality. How much he'd _wanted_ to doubt reality.

Dean didn't say anything.

"I knew, ok?" Sam was suddenly determined to make him understand. "I knew what was real even if it didn't always _feel_ real. But the longer we were there...the more I just didn't care. I let myself lose focus. It was easier to shut it out."

There was no judgment reflected in Dean's eyes. Only understanding. Sam's stomach flip-flopped uncomfortably anyway.

"I wasn't like when I was hallucinating. I never...I never saw anything, it just...sometimes, yeah, it reminded me of…" _Lucifer and the Cage and Toni and that basement and losing you and cold and fear and pain, "_ stuff."

Heart pounding, he held his breath, waiting for Dean's response.

Dean didn't say anything, though. At least not aloud. But the turmoil in his eyes spoke volumes.

"What do we do now?" Sam asked, needing an answer, a solution... _something_.

Dean studied him for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't know, Sam. I honestly don't know."

The admission left Sam struggling to remember how to breathe.

 _tbc..._

* * *

 ** _Well, at least they've got it all out on the table finally. Maybe they can start to make some progress from here? :)_** ** _stay tuned for chapter three to find out!_**

 ** _thank you for reading! hope you have a great Thursday!_**


	3. Chapter 3

_**Good morning! sorry for the bit of delay getting ch three posted. You can all thank my beta, L.H. the Second, for there even BEING a chapter three. :) This story was intended as a two parter (ch 2 ended a bit differently then the version posted), and then she asked for more lol. Which was great...just took me a little while to get all my ducks (Winchesters?) in a row. ;)**_

 ** _Hope you enjoy the conclusion!_**

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

Dean regretted what he'd said as soon as he'd said it; regretted not having a better answer for his brother. An _actual_ answer. He'd pushed Sam until he'd finally opened up and then had nothing to give him in return.

Because he _didn't_ know what they were supposed to do now.

It wasn't like he hadn't expected or guessed most of what Sam had told him about his time in prison. But listening to him struggling to put it all into words and seeing the mix of fear and vulnerability in his eyes as he spoke had been painful. It would have been easier if Sam had been angry because they could have shouted until they'd both felt better. But Sam hadn't been angry so much as defeated and Dean was at a loss because he couldn't go back and tear the prison apart brick by brick. Couldn't rewind time and save them both the pain.

When he'd been sitting in the prison cell fantasizing about what he'd do if they ever got free, he hadn't envisioned this. This sense of loss, of continued isolation. Hadn't expected the way nothing felt right even though they were safe in the bunker. Hadn't expected to still feel so helpless.

His mind raced as he tried to think of something to say to make this better. Sam looked away from him, staring blankly at the table and Dean wasn't sure if he was falling asleep or zoning out again. He couldn't blame his brother for not having slept well; sleep hadn't come easily for him last night, and the sleep he _had_ gotten had been whiskey-assisted. Not unexpected, given the circumstances. Sleeping well probably wasn't in the cards for a very long time.

He rubbed his eyes, wishing he could call Bobby. It was always at times like these, when he was overwhelmed and drowning under the weight of their lives, that he wished Bobby was alive even more than he usually did. Bobby hadn't always had an answer, but he'd always been there. He'd always listened, always cared, and always tried to sort out their messes.

But it had only been them for the past five years and this was just another mess they were going to have to sort out on their own.

Refocusing on the present, Dean gave some serious consideration to Sam's question.

 _What do we do now?_

It was an excellent question.

He watched Sam struggling to keep his eyes open and debated trying to bully him into going back to bed. That would be a logical first step. Sam needed the sleep and it would give Dean time to come up with the next step. Convincing his brother to try and get some more sleep, though, was going to be tricky.

"Dean?"

"What?" His voice was hoarse and he cleared his throat. "What's up?"

"I think… I'm just going to go…" Sam looked dazed, whether from exhaustion or something else, Dean wasn't sure.

"Go where?" Dean sat up straighter, not sure he wanted his brother to go anywhere.

Sam rubbed his forehead and muttered, "I'm gonna lie down for awhile."

Dean's chest tightened even though that was exactly what he'd wanted his brother to do. He watched Sam get to his feet and carry his coffee cup to the sink. While Sam was rinsing out the cup, Dean asked, "You need something for the headache?"

"It's not that bad." Sam set the cup down and slowly walked to the door. Hesitating, he glanced over his shoulder. "What're you going to do?"

"Might go do a little more work on that room." Dean shrugged. He didn't really feel like doing anything but drinking and forgetting, but there was an appeal to tearing things apart.

Sam nodded, then walked away.

Sighing, Dean rested his head in his hands. He should get up, get dressed, and get to work. It made sense to get busy. Sitting around thinking too much wasn't helping either of them.

He still hadn't moved when he heard footsteps coming down the hall. Sitting up, he raised an eyebrow at the sight of his brother.

"Thought you were going to bed," he said as Sam went to the fridge.

"Thought you were going to work." Sam shrugged, holding up a bottle of water. He leaned against the counter and took a drink.

After a moment of silence, Dean said, "You should just take something."

"It's not that bad."

"Ok."

After another moment, Sam left the room with his bottle of water. Dean waited a full ten minutes, then got up, grabbed a nearly empty bottle of ibuprofen, and headed to his brother's room. Bad or not, there was no reason for Sam to have to deal with a headache.

Walking into Sam's room, he almost collided with his brother. Sam took a step back and frowned at him. Dean just held up the bottle of meds and asked, "Looking for these?"

Whether he had been or not, Sam didn't say. He did take the bottle, though, and shook out a few tablets. Once he'd downed them with a sip of water, he sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled his shoes off.

"Get some sleep," Dean said, pausing at the door.

Sam nodded, not looking like he was in any particular hurry to get into bed.

Dean hesitated for a moment longer, then forced himself to walk to his own room. He was going to get dressed and go tear some more shelves down while his brother caught up on his sleep. Simple as that. Except nothing was simple right now.

Which was why he found himself walking back to his brother's room after getting dressed. The overhead light was off and the room was just lit by the desk lamp. Sam was stretched out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He glanced over when Dean stopped at the door. He didn't ask what Dean was doing, just held his gaze.

It was just as well Sam didn't ask, because Dean didn't have an answer. Not one he could say out loud, anyway. Why he couldn't get the words past the lump in his throat, he didn't know. Why was it so hard to admit that he was afraid? To admit he didn't want to let his brother out of his sight? Why couldn't he just let his guard down and admit what he was feeling?

The truth was that he'd needed to see his brother again even though it had been mere minutes since he'd last seen him. Needed to check on him and make sure he remembered they were safe. Needed to reassure _himself_ that they were safe. That he wasn't permanently separated from his brother. Sam hadn't closed his door so maybe he'd been feeling the same way.

"I was just...thinking I'd borrow a book," Dean said out of the blue. _Smooth, really smooth._

Sam was either too stunned or too tired to have much of a reaction. He waved a hand to his desk and said, "Help yourself."

"Thanks."

Dean kept himself busy for a few minutes, watching his brother out of the corner of his eye. Sam was watching him right back, expression unreadable, eyes struggling to stay open. At first, Dean thought his brother was just being stubborn and fighting sleep to prove some kind of point. But as he flipped through the pages of _War and Peace,_ he realized he was wrong.

Sam wasn't forcing his eyes open over and over again just to be obstinate. He was doing it for the same reason Dean was standing there rifling through Sam's books.

He needed to see his brother.

Still fighting to keep his eyes open, Sam shifted onto his side.

Dean stopped pretending to read the book and said, "I don't wanna have to walk all the way back if I decide the exploits of the Russian aristocracy aren't for me. It ok if I stay for awhile?"

"Yeah."

The simplicity of the response was betrayed by the unhidden _need_ in his eyes. It went straight to Dean's heart. He pulled out the desk chair and sat down. Sam watched silently, his breathing easing. Dean thumbed at the pages of the book, studying his brother.

"I'll be here when you wake up," Dean said quietly as he opened the book up to the first page.

It must have been what Sam had needed to hear because he sighed, the tension eased out of his posture, and his eyes slid closed.

Breathing out his own sigh, Dean set the book aside. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, pressing his fingers against his mouth. It was comforting, really. Being able to stay here. Being able to watch his brother sleep. To know he was alive and safe and in his own bed in their own home. A sense of peace filled him despite the continued turmoil in his mind.

Yesterday, when Sam had walked out on him, he'd been at a complete loss.

His plan to get drunk and avoid facing his problems, had been derailed when Sam's veneer of stoic unaffectedness had cracked. The confirmation that his brother was struggling badly had flipped all his priorities.

He'd switched from beer to coffee, eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on slightly stale bread from the freezer, then found a dark, unexplored section of the bunker and started renovations. He wasn't sure what he was going to do with the room, but it was a good size and might make a cozy TV room at some point.

The important thing was that tearing the room apart had given him something to do while he pondered everything Sam had said. The physical activity had been a welcome change. Six weeks of having nothing to do had left him with the desperate need to be busy working.

Sitting back in the chair, he decided after Sam woke up, he'd go back and tear down a few more shelves. Might even make it a team sport; Sam needed the distraction as much as he did.

For now, though, he was going to sit here and make sure his brother could sleep.

* * *

It was almost two that afternoon before Sam stirred.

By that time, Dean had made it through six chapters of _War and Peace,_ taken a brief nap of his own despite the uncomfortable hard-backed chair, and spent a long time considering their conversations. While Sam fought his way to awareness, Dean dropped his legs from the foot of the bed and straightened. Setting the book aside, he stretched out tight muscles and started thinking about lunch.

Sam glanced his way and in that unguarded moment, Dean saw relief and fear tangled up together in his brother's eyes.

"What time is it?" Sam asked, leaning up on one elbow. He sounded bad. Shaky, confused.

"It's almost two," Dean said, telling himself to give his brother time to fully wake up. "You sleep ok?"

Sam pressed his fingers to his eyes and asked, "Same day?"

"Yeah, it's the same day." Dean frowned, his heart starting to beat a little faster. "Why?"

"Feels like…" Sam lowered his hand, staring at the clock. He shook his head.

"Sam?"

"I can't keep things…" Sam looked at him, shaking his head again. "I keep losing time, Dean."

Dean took a slow breath. He needed to convince himself everything was ok before he could hope to convince his brother. It wasn't a complete surprise to hear Sam's admission, but he didn't like it.

"Six weeks without a clock or a calendar," Dean said, trying to smile. "It's no big deal. Messes with your head. You're tired, man, that's all."

"It's not just now." Sam sat up on the edge of the bed and pressed his fingers to his temples.

"I know. You spaced out on me earlier. Doesn't mean anything." Dean hoped he sounded confident. "Everything's just all screwed up right now. You need to eat something. Come on. I'll make lunch."

Sam sighed heavily and Dean thought maybe he was going to argue, but then he said, "I could eat."

"Good." Dean held out a hand to pull his brother up. "I'll make the burgers, you can make the salad."

"You're gonna eat a salad?" Sam asked once he was standing.

"After six weeks, even _I_ could go for a fresh vegetable." Dean clapped him on the shoulder. "You'll eat a burger?"

"Yeah."

Dean nodded, leading the way to the door. He was pleased that the suggestion of lunch had gone over well. The extra rest must have helped because, by the time they reached the kitchen, Sam seemed a little better. Not so lethargic, not so lost. They worked together to make lunch, easily chatting about _War and Peace._ Dean asked for a summary, but Sam insisted he could just finish the book for himself since he'd started it.

By the time they sat down and started eating, things almost felt back to normal.

"I didn't miss anything as much as I missed cheeseburgers," Dean said, after devouring half his burger.

It wasn't really the truth, but they didn't tend to say things like _I missed you_ aloud _._ The eyeroll and tolerant smile he received from Sam made it worthwhile anyway. He hadn't said anything, but he looked pretty darn happy with his cheeseburger, too.

"So what's your plan for the rest of the day?" Sam asked, then took a sip of water.

"Might go do a little more work in that room." Dean wiped his fingers on a napkin and shrugged. "It's just wasted space right now."

"You think we don't have _enough_ space?"

"Never hurts to be organized." He glared at his brother when Sam raised an eyebrow. "What? I'm organized. Besides, one of these days I'm sure you're gonna decide you want to have a separate room for each monster's lore."

"We probably have enough rooms to do that," Sam said, considering. "Sounds like a lot of work, though. And a lot of the books don't deal with just one subject. It would get confusing if we needed something about a revenant but it was in a book about a wraith. Which room would we go to?"

"Why am I not surprised that you've given this a lot of thought?" Dean shook his head.

"It's crossed my mind a time or two that we could make better use of our space."

"Well, that's not how we're gonna do it," Dean said. After a sip of beer, he added, "A pool table would be a better use of the space."

"Really?" Sam smiled. "You don't get enough pool while we're on the road?"

"Practice makes perfect, Sammy. Can't afford to get rusty."

"Uh huh. When's the last time you lost a game of pool?"

Since the last time he'd lost a game of pool had been a game they'd played against each other and they both knew it, Dean left the question unanswered.

"What about you?" Dean asked, switching gears.

"What about me?" Sam asked, his fork paused mid-air. Lettuce fell back to the dwindling pile on his plate.

"What're you going to do while I'm making room for our new pool table?"

Sam shrugged, stabbing his fork into what was left of his salad. "Might see if Cas and Mom need any help."

Seemed reasonable, so Dean nodded. He didn't know if he should be glad or concerned that Sam hadn't pursued the topic of why Cas had left the bunker so quickly yesterday. Given everything they were dealing with, Dean wasn't ready to try to sort through his complicated emotions regarding what Cas had done.

He'd get there eventually, but not today.

* * *

After cleaning the dishes, they parted ways.

Despite working at opposite ends of the bunker, they were never apart longer than thirty minutes at a time and Sam wasn't sure who was benefiting most from the frequent contact. It had started innocently enough after he'd talked to their mom. He'd gone to Dean with a question and helped him move some file drawers to a different room. Half an hour later, Dean had appeared with a book on obscure Polynesian spells he'd found wedged behind a bookshelf.

From that point forward, for the rest of the day, they alternated checking up on each other without ever admitting that's what they were doing. It was a little silly, probably not necessary, and honestly quite comforting. Not that either of them were admitting that, of course.

By evening, they had cleaned out the spare room and started on a second. Sam had done what he could to assist Cas and their mom, but they'd both declined his offer to meet them in the field to help further. In a way, he was glad. The day had gone well despite its bumpy start, but he didn't really feel ready to get back to hunting quite yet.

After dinner, they killed a couple hours watching movies until they both started falling asleep. They headed to their own beds sometime after ten and Sam slept like a rock for three hours. Then he woke up and spent the next couple of hours just staring at the clock.

Not quite able to go back to sleep, not quite able to convince himself to get out of bed, he watched the minutes tick by until he couldn't stand it any longer. He sighed, rolling over in bed so he couldn't see the clock.

Staring at the opposite wall wasn't any better. As much as he wanted to fall asleep again, at this point he knew it was a lost cause. Might as well get up and do something productive.

A shower and fresh change of clothes later, Sam wandered down the hall. He paused at his brother's room, reassuring himself that Dean was sleeping soundly, before heading to the library. There was still research to be done, but for once the thought didn't appeal. He left the piles of books behind without a backward glance and wandered deeper into the bunker.

A few minutes later, he found himself at the room they'd worked on yesterday. Dean's excitement over the now empty space and the prospect of them getting their very own pool table had been infectious.

Smiling to himself, Sam walked down to the second room. Aside from a few journals and a couple of ornate daggers Dean had been utterly thrilled with, the space hadn't yielded much of value. But there were still many boxes they hadn't looked through and the shelves were crowded and messy. With a shrug, Sam flipped on the light and got to work.

He went through the boxes systematically, sorting their contents into organized piles and stirring up endless clouds of dust. Most of what he uncovered was junk, but it felt good to work up a sweat. Even if it was pointless, the physical labor was a welcome change after weeks locked behind a steel door; unable to do anything.

The simple thought made Sam freeze. A twinge of anxiety threatened to sweep over him, but he forced it down and checked his watch. Twenty minutes. It had only been twenty minutes - just like it had felt. He hadn't lost any time. It wasn't like when he'd been _there._

Despite Dean's reassurances to the contrary, he knew it had been more than a lack of clocks and calendars that had messed with his head in prison. It was going to take time to get back to normal. To not break into a cold sweat at the briefest memory of those six weeks. To not fear what he might find whenever he looked at a clock.

But things were better now. _He_ was better.

Taking a deep breath, Sam decided he needed coffee. He hadn't bothered to make any earlier and was starting to feel in need of some caffeine. The fact that a trip to the kitchen would also take him past his brother's room had nothing to do with his decision. Nothing at all.

Sam was halfway to the door before he stopped himself. He wanted coffee and he wanted to see his brother, but he also wanted - _needed_ \- to be in control. Losing his focus at the first bad memory seemed too much like failure. Fists clenched, lips pressed tight together, Sam forced himself to look around. To find something else to do. _Anything_ to distract himself for a few minutes longer so he wouldn't feel so defeated.

The remaining boxes and shelves were overflowing with so much junk it made his head spin. He needed something simpler. Something like whatever that poster was he could see tacked on the wall behind the door. What little he could see of its edge was covered in intricate scroll work, like maybe it was important.

The door was propped all the way open, preventing Sam from getting a good view of his assigned target. He kicked the door stop out of the way and shoved the heavy door shut. It latched with a dull click that echoed all too loudly in the small room. Sam grit his teeth and turned to the poster.

Now that he had a clear view, he realized it wasn't a poster, but a hand drawn map of the United States. The intricate scroll work he'd noticed before was embellished with pudgy cherubs. Pudgy cherubs with _fangs_.

He grimaced. Maybe there was a good reason the Men of Letters had hidden the thing behind a door. Something about the fangs made the cherubs look like they wanted to snack on human flesh. He shook the thought away, ignoring their hungry faces as well as his sweaty palms in favor of studying the rest of the map. It appeared to be some kind of visual aid for what type of monster was commonly found in what region.

If it hadn't been a hundred years out of date, Sam might have cared more. As it was, all he could think of was that coffee and his brother were waiting for him on the other side of that closed door. Out of date or not, the map still counted as a momentary distraction. He'd done what he set out to do. Smiling at the almost ridiculous victory, Sam went to the door and grabbed the knob.

Coffee was sounding better by the second.

He turned the knob and pulled, but the door didn't open.

Frowning, he tried again. The door still didn't move. He twisted the knob back and forth, then gave it a solid yank. Nothing. Irritation began to build as he wrenched on the knob again.

He wanted his coffee.

The door still didn't budge.

"Seriously?" he muttered, jerking on the knob with both hands this time.

Nothing.

He gave up on the door knob and started looking at the rest of the door. Nothing special about it as far as he could tell. Just a plain hardwood door. A plain hardwood door that didn't want to open. Looking over at the door stop, he regretted kicking it aside.

Maybe there had been a _reason_ it had been there in the first place.

Running his fingers along the edges of the door, he briefly wondered if there was some kind of warding or trap involved. But there weren't any sigils or markings on the door that he could see. It was just a normal door that refused to open.

"You have got to be kidding me," he said to the ugly cherubs. They were staring at him and he could've sworn they were laughing.

Shaking his head, he braced his hand on the doorframe and pulled on the door knob with his other hand. Nothing. The door didn't move at all and he was starting to lose patience. Another glance at all parts of the door revealed nothing new. Maybe the hinges needed to be oiled?

Well, he didn't have oil and he didn't have a key and he didn't have a sledge hammer. He had a bunch of vampiric cherubs and a whole lot of dust and paperwork. Even the daggers Dean had been so thrilled with were gone.

Probably mounted on the wall in his bedroom, Sam thought, rolling his eyes.

He went back to tugging on the door. At some point, he transitioned from frustration to something closer to panic. He pounded on the door, yanked it, prodded the hinges with his pocket knife, and circled the room at least ten times trying to find something useful to help him get out. He combed every inch of the place, hoping to discover another way out, but it all proved futile.

Leaning against the door, he slid down to the cold cement and pressed both hands to his head, trying to regulate his breathing.

Small room. Heavy, closed door. Locked in with no way of escape.

Tilting his head back against the door, he squeezed his eyes closed.

 _This is different. This is different. This is different._

It _was_ different, but that understanding didn't change the fact he was trapped in a small room with no way out. That thought sent a spike of terror straight through his heart and logic fled. He pushed himself to his feet and went back to yanking on the door like somehow it would open now that he was freaking out.

It didn't.

Sweating and breathing hard, he pressed his forehead to the door. Not good. Not good at all. There was no way of escape besides the door.

The stupid cherubs were mocking him.

He lifted his head and stared at the map, wondering what Dean would think of the ugly little monsters. Vampire cherubs. Dean would no doubt come up with a ridiculous yet somehow perfect name for them.

And then he was shaking his head at his own stupidity. _His brother._ All he had to do was call Dean.

"Yes, I'm an idiot," he muttered to the creatures on the map.

Sheer, blessed relief flooded him as he pulled Dean's number up on his phone. He wasn't trapped in a prison with no way of reaching his brother. This time, salvation was just a phone call away.

A touch of humiliation stirred as he listened to the phone start to ring. Because how stupid was it to get locked in a store room? Dean probably wasn't going to let this go for a long time, but Sam decided he didn't care.

He wanted to hear his brother's voice and he wanted out of this room right freakin' _now._

* * *

Something was buzzing nearby. If it was a bee, Dean wanted nothing to do with it because it sounded like it was big. Really big. He didn't want to get stung. And he was sleeping. He rolled over, burying his face in the pillow, and the buzzing faded.

It wasn't long, though, until the buzzing started up again.

Over and over, the cycle continued. Buzzing then silence. Buzzing then silence.

After several rounds, Dean shoved himself upright, ready to grab his gun and shoot the bee. It would be worth the risk of getting stung. Then he looked around his bedroom in slight befuddlement. No bee.

Sitting on the edge of his bed in the darkness, he spent a moment trying to figure out if he'd merely been dreaming. A bee was a weird thing to dream about, but it wouldn't have been the weirdest thing ever.

He ran his hands through his hair as he yawned.

And then the buzzing started up again and he jumped. Twisting around, he leaned over and flipped the bedside lamp on, determined to murder the bee. But then his phone caught his eye and everything suddenly made sense.

Shaking his head as he tried to wake up, Dean fumbled for his phone. The buzzing stopped before he could get there and he groaned. A glance at the clock revealed it was just after four. Annoyance sparked, but as soon as he snatched up his phone and saw he had _seven_ missed calls from Sam, annoyance left the building and panic took its place. There weren't any good reasons for Sam to be calling him at four in the morning and a lot of _bad_ reasons.

He was about to dial his brother when the phone started buzzing again. Going for his robe, he answered, "Sammy?"

" _Hey."_ There was a lot of fear packed into that one word.

"Where are you?" Yanking on his robe, he headed for the door.

" _Uh...I'm in the bunker,"_ Sam said, his voice wavering.

"Where?" Dean was already in the hallway, just waiting to determine direction.

" _I'm in that storage room we were cleaning out yesterday."_ Sam sounded a bit stronger, a little less frantic.

"Are you hurt?" He headed for the storage rooms.

" _No. No, I'm fine. It's ok."_ Sam laughed nervously. " _Sorry. Sorry, it's not a big-"_

"Shut up. You called me seven times. _Seven times._ " Dean was jogging now. "What happened?"

" _Uh...well, it's kind of a funny story-"_

"I'm laughing on the inside." Dean wasn't laughing anywhere. "If you don't spit it out-"

" _I'm locked inside the storage room."_

Dean slowed his steps. "You're locked inside the storage room?"

" _Yeah. Sorry."_

Of all the things he'd been envisioning, this was definitely not one of them. His worry eased knowing Sam wasn't in any apparent mortal danger and the urge to laugh slowly started to bubble. Sam was right. It _was_ a little funny.

Continuing down the hall at a walk this time, he asked, "Why are you locked in the storage room?"

" _Door jammed or something."_

"Uh huh. Follow up question: why were you _in_ the storage room? It's the middle of the night."

Sam sounded annoyed when he said, " _Yeah, well you made me take a nap like a two year old yesterday and I couldn't sleep."_

"I didn't make you take a nap." Dean smiled, his heart rate returning to near-normal as he approached the door. "You're the one who went to bed."

" _Because you wouldn't stop nagging me."_

"Hey, I've seen zombies more lively than you were yesterday." He stopped in front of the closed door. "I was just reading a book. You're the one who passed out from exhaustion."

" _I did not… are you here yet?"_

Dean knocked on the door. "Anyone home?"

" _Ha ha."_ Sam disconnected the phone call. His voice was muffled through the door as he asked, " _Can you get it open?"_

After putting his phone in a pocket, Dean tried the door knob. Nothing. Trying again, he asked, "Did you lock it?"

" _Yes. I locked the door and threw away the key."_

Dean could hear Sam's eyeballs rolling.

" _All I did was close the door so I could look at a map I saw on the wall and then when I tried to open it, I couldn't."_

"Huh." Dean tried the door again, shoving his weight against it. Still nothing. "There wasn't anything weird about the door?"

" _It's a door."_

Now Dean's eyes were rolling. "I realize that, genius, but it's a door in a super secret bunker filled with a thousand weird artifacts. The Wicked Witch of the West was in a _bottle_ on a shelf. A door could be weird."

" _Alright, true,"_ Sam conceded. " _But no, I didn't notice anything weird about the door. Until it wouldn't open. It may just be jammed because it's a hundred years old. Or the foundation isn't as level here and it's off because of that. Or the lock sticks. I don't know."_

Dean shoved his weight against the door again. And again. And again just for the heck of it.

" _Don't break your arm,"_ Sam said after the third fruitless effort. " _Maybe there's a key."_

"Maybe there _is_ a key," Dean stepped back. "Where would you suggest I begin looking?"

Sam's laugh was muffled by the door, but Dean heard it all the same. Running his fingers over the lock, he said, "This isn't just a simple lock. Why would they have this kind of lock on a storeroom?"

" _Maybe they stored really important stuff in here at one point."_

"Yeah, or really dangerous stuff."

" _That's a possibility, too,"_ Sam admitted. " _There was a door stop holding it open. Maybe the lock was buggy for the Men of Letters, too."_

"Could be, I guess." Dean frowned, studying the lock. "So what was on this map that got you so excited you locked yourself in a storage room? Buried treasure by any chance? _Atlantis_? _El Dorado_? Amelia Earhart?"

" _I didn't lock myself in and the map is apparently of various monsters and where they're typically found. No buried treasure, lost cities, or Amelia Earhart."_

"Well, that sucks. Any new critters to add to the hit list?"

" _No, although the artist seemed to like decorating with these weird little angel babies with long fangs. If they're real, we need to ask Cas how to end them because I do not want to meet up with one of them."_

Dean laughed, picturing his brother's creeped out expression, and knelt down to get a better look at the lock. "Angel babies, huh? Like Cherubs? Those things are freaky even without vampire fangs. Hey! Cherub vampires... _Cherpires!_ "

Sam groaned and must have thumped his head against the door.

Dean just grinned. It was a pretty great name in his opinion.

" _This is ridiculous,"_ Sam muttered.

He couldn't disagree. It _was_ ridiculous, but while he didn't see any reason to comment on it, Sam apparently wasn't finished pointing out the obvious.

" _It's just a door. How jammed can it be?"_

The door vibrated under his hand and the knob twisted as Sam yanked on it.

"Settle down in there, Hulk. Don't pull the door knob off. I'm gonna go get my lock pick set."

" _Yeah, ok."_

Dean nodded to himself and went back to his room for his kit. He briefly considered bringing his gun to shoot the lock open, but the lock was both intricate and heavy-duty so he'd probably just wind up shooting himself with a ricocheting bullet. He'd keep that option in reserve for now.

A minute later, he was kneeling in front of the door working the lock.

Ten minutes later, he was kneeling in front of the door giving up on working the lock.

"Alright, this is pointless." Time to move on to more drastic options.

" _I can't believe I'm going to say this, but maybe you should get the grenade launcher."_

"I _am_ gonna use that beauty one of these days." Dean smiled. "Maybe even to blow open a door, but not when you're standing on the other side, ok?"

" _I'll hide in the corner."_

"How 'bout you just sit down and read some of those boring journals while I go get some other tools?"

Sam huffed and must have kicked the door.

Dean turned and headed for the garage.

Fifteen minutes of door-surgery later, he was sweaty, frustrated, and still staring at a door that refused to budge. Nothing had worked. Not brute strength. Not cursing or kicking. Not Sam's attempts to leverage the door off its hinges with pieces of the bookshelf. Not shooting the lock (he'd had to duck the ricochet). Not attempting to pry the door open with the crowbar. Not hitting the lock with a hammer.

Nothing.

Dropping the hammer next to the crowbar, Dean sucked in a deep breath. He bit his tongue and held back the scathing reply he'd prepared to volley back at his extremely aggravated brother. They'd been shouting at each other for the last five minutes.

Tension had risen with every failed attempt. Their recent incarceration wasn't helping anything, either. Dean couldn't keep his mind away from the memories and every damn one amplified his anxiety. What had initially been funny was no longer amusing. At all.

There was a locked door between him and his brother.

A barrier that - so far - he hadn't been successful in tearing down. Adding to his stress level was the fact that he could hear the strain in his brother's voice all too clearly. Being trapped in a small room wasn't doing him any favors.

 _This is not a big deal,_ Dean told himself, running his hand along the edges of the door. _He's fine. We're gonna get the door open. It's not like the prison. It's not like he's never getting out._

"Sam?" he called out. "You doing ok?"

He heard a heavy sigh, then _, "Yeah."_

"You sure?"

" _I'm ok."_ There was no bite in his tone now. Just weariness. " _Kind of sick of four walls and no windows. Just wanna get out of here."_

"I know you do." Dean took another deep breath. "I'm gonna get you out, ok?"

" _I know you will."_

Dean closed his eyes, palm pressed against the door. He'd wanted, no _needed,_ to get to his brother so badly in that prison. But he'd never even had a chance. This, though - this was different. He'd told Sam he was going to get him out and he would. Knowing Sam believed it too, filled him with a sort of peace and renewed his confidence.

"Sammy?"

" _What?"_

"I'm gonna get the axe."

" _Works for me."_

Dean patted the door. "Don't go anywhere."

" _You're hilarious."_

"I know I am. Be right back."

He ran all the way to the garage and grabbed the axe. Then he paused, surveying the rest of the tool collection. Some of it was stuff he'd attained over the years, some of it was left over from the Men of Letters. There _had_ to be a better option than the axe. _Or the grenade launcher._

The need to get back to his brother, though, made him impatient. A snappy fifteen second search, and he was ready to just forget it and go chop a Sam-shaped hole in a door. That's when he saw it.

"You're an idiot," he muttered, grabbing the tool he should have used to begin with.

When he got back to the storage room, he knocked on the door.

" _Who's there?"_

"Fire and Rescue." Dean grinned. "I brought The Irons."

There was a long pause, then Sam asked, "Golf clubs?"

"Yes, Sam, I'm going to beat the door down with a golf club." Dean shook his head, still cradling his find in his arms. "The Irons is what a Halligan bar and axe are called when they're interlocked."

"Halligan bar?"

"Yeah, you know. Claw, blade, tapered pick. That thing firemen use to breach locked doors."

"And you call _me_ the nerd."

"You are a nerd." Dean separated the tools. "I just always wanted to be a fireman. I guess I'm getting another chance right now; rescuing the damsel in distress."

"You're a jerk."

"Hey, I'm the one who got woken up in the middle of the night because their little brother locked himself in a closet."

"It's not a closet-"

"It's basically a closet," Dean said firmly, positioning the claw end of the Halligan bar between the door and the doorjamb.

Sam sighed, but didn't argue the point. "I didn't know we even had...Irons."

" _The_ Irons, Sammy. Keep it straight. And we've got a lot of stuff we don't know we have."

Listening to Sam's muffled laugh, Dean shoved the Halligan bar in a little tighter and used the flat head of the axe against the end. It took a couple hits before he finally felt the door begin to move and then it was open.

* * *

The first thing Sam saw when the door opened was his brother.

Standing there in his dead-man's robe with sleep-mussed hair, the Halligan bar in his right hand, Dean looked ridiculous. He also looked relieved, but kind of strung out and tense. Sam wanted to tease him about his robe, but couldn't when he saw the hallway. Tools were strewn everywhere - evidence of his brother's desperate attempts to free him.

Sam took in the sight, and couldn't help but ask, "You miss me or something?"

He'd expected a mouthy retort, but that wasn't what he got. Dean just stared at him for a moment, unguarded emotions bright in his eyes. Sam wanted to say something else to lighten the mood and reassure his brother that everything was fine, but couldn't seem to find the words.

The sound of the Halligan bar hitting the floor reverberated loudly around them as Dean dropped it. He took a hesitant step forward, eyes never leaving Sam's, and then he was right there. He pulled Sam close, wrapping him in his arms.

Sam leaned into it, bringing his own arms around his brother and closing his eyes.

"I missed you every damn day," Dean confessed, his voice rough and his breathing unsteady.

For a moment, it was as if they were back in a run down cabin somewhere near Cold Oak and Dean was grabbing him like he'd thought he'd never see him again. It was as if they were back in that motel room when he'd finally wrapped his head around the fact Dean was back from hell. As if they were at Bobby's house and he'd barely made it up the stairs, but he'd had his soul back and every painful step had been worth it when he'd seen his brother. They were in the woods of Maine and he'd just smuggled Bobby out of Purgatory. They were in a church and Dean was pulling him back from the edge of the trials.

It was every single time they'd ever been separated. Every single time they'd found each other again. It was six weeks of terror and loneliness finally behind them. It was them desperately clinging to the only thing that had ever kept them afloat.

Each other.

Something fell back into place between them and Sam no longer felt like he was drowning.

Dean pulled back, allowing Sam to straighten, but didn't fully release his hold. Hands still resting on his Sam's shoulders, he asked, "You alright?"

"I'm alright." Sam sucked in a shaky breath and smiled.

"Ok." Dean finally let him go, stepping back a bit. His expression was a little more guarded now; all the things they never said aloud had already been clearly communicated. He glanced into the room. "You were in there this whole time and couldn't finish tearing down the bookshelves?"

"Was a little more interested in getting _out_ than I was in redecorating."

"You're helping me pick up this stuff." Dean motioned to the tools in the hallway. "Can't believe you got yourself locked in a room and - "

"Dean?" he interrupted.

"Yeah?"

"Let's go for a drive."

Dean looked up from the mess, but stayed silent.

Sam held his breath.

Then Dean nodded. "Let's go."

They went; leaving the tools and the broken door and the fear behind. With everything that had happened, all Sam wanted to do was hit the road with his brother. No more small rooms, no more barriers. Just the two of them.

As they neared Dean's room, though, Sam slowed. "Dude, you gotta get outta the dead-guy robe. I'm not going anywhere with you dressed like that."

Dean tilted his head and asked in all seriousness, "Are we going somewhere important?"

"No." Sam smiled. "No, we're not."

"Good. Let's go."

They walked past Dean's room and straight out to the Impala together.

Maybe they'd drive aimlessly for hours. Maybe they'd stop for coffee somewhere. Maybe they'd eventually get breakfast. Maybe he'd have to walk into some diner with his brother looking like an escapee from a mental hospital. Maybe he wouldn't care. Maybe he'd just be too damn glad his brother was around to wear his dead-guy robe to care that he was wearing it in public. If Dean didn't care, why should he?

The open road beckoned them and they were going to embrace it with the windows down, fresh air in their faces, and the radio blasting music from before they'd been born. They were going to embrace it because they were both alive and they were together and nothing had beaten them yet.

Once in the Impala, they pulled their doors closed as one and traded smiles.

Sometimes you needed a life-preserver thrown your way, and sometimes you _were_ the life-preserver.

 _ **the end**_

* * *

 _ **thank you for reading! hope you enjoyed the story!**_

 ** _A few notes -_**

 ** _I wanted to address Dean's anger with Cas, but since it actually (amazingly) did get addressed on the show (however briefly) in the next episode, I wanted to leave it kind of open ended in this story._**

 ** _If you're wondering what a Halligan bar is, google it! I'm a history buff so I kind of got sucked into the vortex when I went searching for a way to get that door opened. Quite an interesting tool. Given Dean's admitted desire to be a fireman when he grew up, I thought it was a fitting tool for him and something that wouldn't seem too far out for the Men of Letter's to have kicking around somewhere. :)_**

 ** _Also, thank you for the kind thoughts and well-wishes! I'm doing much better and healing up. :)_**

 ** _I'll be back next Monday with the next chapter of "Fifty Miles" with a Season Three fic, set post "Red Sky at Morning."_**

 ** _have a great week!_**


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